He don’t have a ring, so it don’t mean a thing

I hate sitting on the train with actual human beings. The train is not for human beings. The train is made so a bunch of strangers can sit in awkward silence until they wait for their stop to come up. It is the agreement we have as soon as we get on the train. You pay for a ticket and you cease to be a human being, albeit briefly. When you get on that train and you cease being human being, you are then supposed to lose all your senses and abilities. Essentially you shut up. There are, however, exceptions to this rule,

1. You get on the train and you have a bunch of friends with you
2. You are having a heart attack

Although the first one may seem to justify my very own actions, it doesn’t. It does, but more importantly it doesn’t. If someone has friends with them they are talking to someone who isn’t a stranger. The non-strangers on the train are having an informed conversation. They are having a conversation filled with anecdotes and love (with random pangs of jealousy).

Though people who attempt conversations with other people on the train are not the worst of the ‘human beings’. The worst of the worst are the broadcasters, people who use their mobile phones as a kind of portable Facebook. With their mobile phones they play their favorite music all pumped up, and they scream private details of their lives into their phone. Right now I am sitting opposite one such gentleman.

Apparently this man is getting married very soon. Although he is ‘f—cking stuffed out of his a-hole’* due to all his very important soccer training. Though tired as he is he is still managing to very effectively organize his bucks party. He is very excited about his bucks party, I know this because he keeps stamping his foot and shouting that it’ll be ‘f—king awesome’. He is especially excited about the topless waiters. He taps his foot very enthusiastically when he talks about the topless waiters.

He does worry though. He is a complex individual who wonders if it is right to spend too much money before he commits his life to… woman. He doesn’t say these words exactly instead he says, ‘Tell Johnno, that I am not paying for his fat f—king a-- again. Tell that mother—ker, that when I f—ked his sister she gave me herpes, and I’ll pay for that the rest of my life. So the least he can do is pay for his own f—king drinks’. So boys and girls, from broadcaster we have learnt two valuable lessons, always be safe and don’t have a mole as a sister, otherwise you’ll have to pay for your own drinks.

I don’t mind human beings as a rule. In fact I am a very sociable person. I like people and for the most part people seem to like me back. Some people like me a lot more than I like them, and some people I like a lot more than they’ll ever like me back. It’s the cruel cycle of life. Yet, to a certain degree the details I find out about their life come through a common interest, common situation. I do not need to hear about a stranger’s past and future sexual history as I sit on the train.

The sexual history of strangers is solely for reality television programs.

*If I am very lucky in my life, I will never know what this means.

Rude Customers

Animal documentaries are the best. They have awesome narrators who talk in short and melodramatic sentences. I wish I was a narrator of an animal documentary. Narrators for animal documentaries can get away with saying verbose descriptions for the most uninteresting things. For example, if you and I were to see a sleeping lion we would say, ‘Oi, there is a lion sleeping, yeah, he’s having a good ol’ nap’. A narrator on an animal documentary will say, ‘See their lays the majestic King of the Wild. Today he has ruled his Kingdom with a clenched claw but an open heart. But at any time the women in his own personal harem could make the King of the Jungle rest in peace, for good!’

I wish I could do that. I wish in uninteresting or difficult moments in my life I could just switch on an animal narrator. I especially wish I could do that when I am dealing with rude customers. The customer would say something like ‘I don’t understand why my card isn’t working, but I am not paying for it and I am taking it!’ If you calmly tell the gentleman that he is then stealing, you may find yourself with an inky antenna after he stabs you in the eye with a pen.

Instead you have to calm him down from his power trip and you are stuck there for twenty-five minutes explaining to an irrational 'human' that he has to pay. When he finally then finds the credit card he didn’t think he had. You smile like it happens to everyone, swallowing your anger down with a big ol' smile.....

Sorry I just passed out from all my own personal anger.

I have this vague idea that my intention was to continue talking about the relationship between animals and some of the customers I have to deal with, but I have completely forgotten. Instead I now have a light headed euphoric feeling where I feel joy, and that I want to hug the earth with my arms. And I know that when I gave the earth a big squeeze, the earth will squeeze me back with the tender arms of Mother Gaia.

I want to go pick flowers, and bake so many biscuits that I could feed everyone in Africa.

Isn’t life grand!

Feyz Mehri realized that after she fell from her anger rush, that she bumped her head on the table. This caused her immense pain that was blocked by an immense amount of positive adrenalin. When that waned, she found herself screaming and hovering in a dark corner. As a result her misanthropic musings will back as of her next blog...

Fiction is deceptive

So I have been watching a lot of Buffy: the Vampire Slayer. It’s awesome and I have no regrets about dedicating the vast majority of my time watching it or thinking about it. However, there is one problem about watching so much Buffy: the Vampire Slayer. It has deceived me into thinking that I am as powerful as Buffy, the Vampire Slayer (I got rid of the colon because I am no longer talking about the show, I am know referencing the Character and her title, her title being the Vampire Slayer or as her friends and enemies call her ‘the slayer’). Not powerful in the sense that I can deal with the undead on a nightly basis, whilst sorting out personal issues which range from a family member’s illness, to my lesbian friend going all kookoo-bananas after her girlfriend was shot by a misogynistic, robotic engineering genius. More powerful in the sense that I think I can walk in a dark alley without anyone being able to harm me. For if they touch me Buffy Anne Summers, and the Scoobie Gang will come to my rescue and carry me away from all that unpleasantness.

This is not a healthy thing.

Though sometimes I am relatively lucid and realize that Buffy, the slayer and her Scooby Gang can’t be everywhere at once. Previously when I was home alone I would always carry a big, scary butcher’s knife with me everywhere. I do not carry a scary, big knife with me anymore. Now I carry around a wooden, mixing spoon. A spoon that’s handle was broken therefore giving it a sharp end. What I am trying to say is that I now carry around a stake, rather than a knife lest I encounter a vampire in my house. I know, I know it is absolutely ridiculous. We all know that you have to invite a vampire inside your house before they can come in and attack you, but it is better to be stake-y than sorry.

I am off to find my marbles…

Technically I am an adult. Although I am still relatively new to this whole adulthood business I remain constantly and inappropriately shocked about it. If someone told me my mother enjoyed consuming the live young of other humans I’d probably respond by saying that explains a lot about my childhood. If someone refers to me as an adult I stammer and ask them whether they have misplaced their manners.

‘I am not an adult’, I huff, ‘I am an -.
Then I remember I am an adult and the law has given me responsibility for myself. Shocking!

In fact if I so wish with just a whisk of my own pen I could decide for myself if I wanted to be sexually exploited within the pornography industry. I don’t think I have the kind of emotional intelligence or contract savvy to sign that kind of agreement, but there you go. I am only one legitimately recognized signature away from being sold into the sex market.

Surely there must be a solution. There must be a way to get out of this growing up business. And there is, friends, family, people who have randomly googled something and come upon this page I will be going on a journey to Neverland. Sure I am older than most of the Lost Boys but surely they need some matronly figure to warm their milk and bandage their knees since Wendy left them. Plus poor Tinkerbell must be bored sick of listening to the quiet angst and rapture of pre-pubescent boys discovering themselves.

Some may say there is no Neverland, but they don’t have the highly secret map I have obtained in exchange for my magic beans. So I’m off and when I come back, if I come back, I’ll bring you by some wonderful tourist trinkets from their gift shops.

Otherwise this is the last you’ll hear from me, unless Neverland has a good Wireless connection.

My imaginary puppy

For the past fourteen years of my life I have wanted a puppy. I have begged, pleaded, screamed and picked up random pieces of poo to show that it doesn’t gross me out. To this my parents have occasionally yelped at me, and told me that they’ll be a puppy for me. It wasn’t very funny to me the first time, and it hasn’t gotten any funnier since. Even the time, when they tried to really drive the point home, and my dad rolled onto his back, whilst my mother scratched him on the stomach. It wasn’t even funny to me then.

So I stopped bringing up dogs. I just let go of the idea altogether.

That was until this week, this week for some unexplained reason I was finally going to get a puppy. A real, female puppy that had all the optional extras.

I have had a kind of tough time lately. Not a bad time, just a tough time. So I thought a puppy would be just the ticket to get me back into Happyland. So I took a few necessary steps in preparing myself for my puppy.
I:
• Did a happy dance.
• Did a happier dance.
• Named my puppy.

I called my puppy Zissou. She was named for ‘The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou’, I am quite fond of that film and so it seemed a fitting name.

Then someone told us about the special time in a girl puppy’s life. The time in a non-desexed girl puppy’s life. The time when she grows up and experiences her cycle.

So we ran back and said put our name down for a boy. Too late.

We thought about still getting her anyway, and then I did what I always do. I conceded to whoever screamed loudest at me about the situation, and this time the side that screamed happened to be anti-puppy. Although surprisingly, this time the anti-puppy team didn’t consist of my parents.

So now I’m stuck dreaming of a puppy that isn’t coming. That isn’t all bad, I don’t mind spending time with my imaginary puppy. With my imaginary puppy I don’t have to feed it, walk it, or really pay it any attention.

It’s really like having no puppy at all.

Except an imaginary puppy has a name, and a dog collar it will never wear.

GI Feyz.

I don't think I'd look okay as a bald person...

I'm alright, promise!

I've changed the title of my blog.

Previously called 'Project Next: The Rejection or the Ultimate Victory' my blog title has been edited to reflect my current situation.

I'm not going to lie I walked the streets of Parramatta (near the place of my work) and cried for a good two minutes. Then I went and got a hot chocolate.

Now everything is fine.

I'm okay now. Promise!

She turns 3!

I feel too many people make fun of Paris Hilton for doing nothing. Sure she’s a gross slapper who carries around STDs like lip gloss, but there are others who do nothing and get attention. May I bring your attention to the new socialites, the cute bubs of celebrities.

What have they done?

What talents do they have?

What bad sexual decisions have they made?

None, well then surely they can’t be famous, you say. Well then you’d be wrong, so very wrong.

The alumni of the famous and cute [FAC] (the Jolie-Pitt clan, Suri Cruise, Kingston Rossdale etc) do nothing yet appear time after time on the covers of a number of reputable publications.

And that just isn’t fair.

At least Paris Hilton actively courts attention but all the little FACs need to do is pout and snappers go nuts.

What has provoked all this anger. One answer. Shiloh Jolie-Pitt turning three years old.

There was a whole article on people.com dedicated to it. I don’t get it, yeah she’s cute, but she looks like any other kid.

Bloody hell I looked like her when I was little (picture of me below, judge for yourself).



Although I cannot lie, I can’t wait for the FACs to grow-up and track the hi-inks they will surely get up to.
My Predictions:
• Maddox Jolie-Pitt: Director of art-house films with heavy oedipal subtexts.
• Zahara Jolie-Pitt: will write memoir on family. Many exclusive interviews await this one.
• Shiloh Jolie-Pitt: Reality television host on minor cable network.
• Pax Jolie-Pitt: token ethnic actor.
• Vivienne and Knox Jolie-Pitt: child actors who star in numerous films about being twins and solving mysteries. Adult careers fizzle as both descend into drug use.
• Suri Cruise: will become a rap star. Hip Hop name, SuCru. Will be estranged from father.
• Kingston Rossdale: Classical guitarist.

Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very Very Very Very very very very very very very ver ve v tired

This is going to be a very short passage within my brilliant blog.

No excuse you say. What are all these sketchings of hackery about?

Well I had to finish an essay, I went to sleep at 5:30 woke up at 6:30, so I am very tired.

This was the best I could do. It is my humble rendering of the thing that keeps me alive.

Tea and Narcissism. With just a touch of the anxious energy which I derive from all my neuroses.

Barack Hussien Obama

I don't have much time. So I drew this instead.

The most racist place in the world

The name I use is the name I was given. I never had to do what other ethnic kids did. I didn't make my name sound easier. I wasn't a Feyz that became a Francis and I was very proud of that. Always made a point of it in conversation, "I kept my name as it should be" I would say.

I didn't necessarily correct people when they pronounced my name wrong. Though I would inwardly roll my eyes and think "Paaaaah, I can pronounce Paul, and yet they don't have the decency to properly pronounce my name, paaaaaaaah". This personal superiority has recently ended though, I have folded, I have given up and I made my name sound easier.

For this one special place I comprised almost 72% of my values. This special place is the most racist place in the world. This place is any local coffee shop.

Recently I went to a place of hate. I place I hate. This is the kind of coffee shop that doesn't call out your order, but your name. I'm sure the basis of this stupid system is to create a more jovial atmosphere, a way of trying to connect barista with customer. Instead this system leads to the most subtle form of racism! (That's right there IS an exclamation point after that statement).

I went there with my friends Jack, Tom and Deliya.

When Jack ordered his coffee (a regular flat white) he used his name.

When Tom ordered his coffee (a regular long black) he used his name).

BUT

When Deliya ordered her coffee(a Chai latte) she didn’t use her name. Deliya became Amy.

Deliya’s name isn’t Amy. Deliya doesn’t look like an Amy. The name Amy in fcat has absolutely no relation to Deliya. Yet, every time Deliya wants a coffee she isn’t Deliya, she has to become Amy.

Then I realized why I hated this coffee shop. They always sneered when I gave my order. I demanded my name be on the order and amongst the morning disorder I took up four letters of their time. When I saw what Deliya did, I decided to follow suit.
Feyz became Francis. I was bought not for thirty pieces of silver, but for one Jumbo Soy Mocha.

I relented so the sneering would stop. I gave up my name, my identity to assimilate into the coffee line. I hate to say it, but it is what I did.

I know how to solve the Tamil/Singhalese situation in Sri Lanka

Everyone has a responsibility to solve this situation. You, me regardless of whether or not we are directly involved in this horrible situation we can help save it. Today I need everyone to leave their houses, and find warring Tamil and Singhalese people. Bring them all together into the room and force them to watch Britney Spears’ Crossroads.

Of course this room will provide snacks.

Although initially animosity will reign free in the room. One side will probably monopolize the Fantales, the other the cheetos. The side with Fantales will read out the clues loudly and carry on like a bunch of hooligans. The side with the cheerios will place the cheesy snacks daintily on their fingertips only to crunch on them loudly and lick the residual flavoring of their hands. It will be, at the beginning, just a noise-fest of talking and slurping and crunching, but then something magical will happen. These two warring peoples will unite.

The movie will draw them in closer. One person will start watching it, then another, the talking will slowly peter out, the crunching will become slower less frantic. Because everyone in the room will want to know if the naïve, virginal young girl played by Britney Spears will find her mother. They will want to know who the father of the trailer trash chick’s baby is. They won’t question why the other chick, you know the token ethnic one, is already engaged even though she just graduated high school. It’ll all just make sense. No questions asked.

The sadness, the alienation and the tribulations of these three girls who are reuniting from years of estrangement will echo the sad conflict of the Tamil and Singhalese people. When the girls are gradually reuniting on the screen, the people in the room will also reunite. It will be subtle though, someone from one side will pass the Fantale bowl to the other side. Then the cheetos will be exchanged.

A Fantale clue will be read out by a Tamil, only to be guessed by a Singhalese person. And it won’t descend into competition instead everyone will congratulate the person who guessed correctly. They will start talking about their similarities, their loves, their dreams and they will realize that they are all the same.

And all of it would have been inspired by the last words of Lucy Wagner (Britney Spears):
“This time, we didn't make any wishes for the future. We said goodbye to our past. Now, none of us has any idea where life's gonna take us, 'cause what we have is now. And right now, we have each other”.

Starting a War

I am starting a new course of self improvement. I will think like powerful, influential people. I will be happy, and refreshed by what each day brings me.

Every moment is an opportunity.

Every setback an obstacle that teaches me how to jump higher.

Every opportunity is just a dream I had that happened to grow wings.

I will think like this every day.

3 minutes later

I am really bored. Obviously I am very little without my neuroses.

No. I have to stop thinking like that.

I need to do what Future Successful Me would do. So what would Future me do?

*thinking time*

I would probably start a war by invading a country and taking over its governmental institutions. This would get me out of my funk! I wouldn’t invade a country that anybody cares about though. That would be silly. I was thinking of invading Canada.

Reasons why I hate Canada:

• They have a superior social welfare system. It angers me.
• Red and White color scheme. Add some black and I think you’ll find that a swastika will be very comfortable.
• They have a whole region dedicated to French Speakers. Well Ladi-da, you tosspots!

There are other reasons but I will refrain, for I am a good person!

So yes I will invade Canada… that’s really as far as I got.

Part Two: After I invade Canada what I will do.

Disclaimer: Project Next deciders, I would never really invade a country. Except for Canada, I actually would invade the shit out of them.

I fare thee well Facial Hair

Capitalism is the system that advocates individualism so long as you can buy your originality through merchandise. So capitalism hates beards. Simple fact, although a bearded man is an individual a bearded man also creates a gap in the male grooming market. A bearded man does not have to buy razors, shaving cream or man moisturizer. Instead a bearded man has a beard. A bearded man is a man.

A bearded man though is not a capitalist.

Politics a place previously for men of great beards has instead been replaced by the clean shaved. I blame the communists. If Marx, Castro, Stalin and Guevara had left the beards alone perhaps we would have more beards in our capitalist society. Instead beards were made obligation grooming for those who rally against the middle class. And you cannot get Howard’s Battlers by looking like you are about to rally against the Middle Class. So the idea of a beard in Australian politics has died.

Ironically Peter Garret is a perfect example of this. The man is a hairless mystery. In fact it has always shocked me that in Australia women continue asking for a Brazilian. You could just as easily say a Peter Garrett and everyone would get what you meant.
But I digress.

The most worrying and clearest suggestion that Australia and the world is increasingly becoming a No Beard Zone was last year. Kevin Rudd had mutton chops for a total of one week. Then they were gone, a brief comment was made about Therese disapproving and Australia moved on. I did not. I knew then the Beard and Moustache was dead to Australian politics.

Goodbye Beardy and Tache. You have given us great moments, but your day is gone. One day I hope to reunite you with the faces of Australian men, for now though I salute you.


P.S. If I get onto Project Next I will grow an impressive beard. It will be so lovely that Frida Kahlo would not help herself she would weep... badly.

Thank God, I have made a promise that I know I will not have to keep.

Can’t have my posts at thirteen…

I am not really a superstitious person, but just in case….

HAPPY FOURTEENTEENTH POST EVERYBODY!*

May we all live happy, prosperous lives? (According to Word Grammar Check there has to be a question mark at the end… worrying, non?)

*Everybody being the world because I think big, not small.

In case I get rejected (likely possibility) I have this all stored up.

Dear Zapruder Productions,

Thanks so much for the opportunity, I really enjoyed meeting all of you too. I would also like to take this opportunity to tell you that I appreciate all your time and your initial interest in me. All of it means more than you’ll ever know.

That’s what makes this next part so hard. In consultation with my lawyers, I will be suing your production company (Zapruder) for blatant discrimination against awesomeness. It was not an easy decision but I feel that I should take a stand against what I personally view as such a heinous and easily accepted discrimination.

Although awesomeness has not been commonly viewed for grounds of legal action, in these tough economic times surely someone must make a stand. With companies, especially now, seeking to make a large number of their employees redundant, those who are awesome will surely suffer. What makes this injustice especially dreadful is that through committing this discrimination not only do you discriminate against the members of awesome, you also persecute them. You turn awesomeness into loserhood, and therefore force those who are awesome to go against their natural form.

Although I would like this case to be resolved out of the court, I have no hesitation in taking this to the highest level of legal institution in the land (I don’t what that institution is, but I will not hesitate in Goggling it and finding out).

Yours Sincerely,


Feyz Mehri



P.S. Now to find my lawyer….

That’s well lush…

I don’t watch a lot of Australian television. I’m not really fond of most of our local productions. So as a result a lot of my television requirements are forced upon the British and the Americans. They make the top-notch productions of which I appreciate.

And I love my programs. I love them a lot. So I watch them a lot.

As a result sometimes I forget that although I watch the programs from both sides of the ‘Pond’ I have no national or rational allegiance to either. My mind knows this, my minds knows that I am neither British/Scottish/Irish/Welsh or American. There is only one problem my voice doesn’t.

I am not particularly good at accents. I tried once and it wasn’t particularly pretty. Though every time I sit down and watch too much television (… every time I watch television), I start talking like a character with a distinctive accent. I start saying words I would usually have no intention of using in a certain context,

I can’t say ‘That’s Good’ I have to say ‘Brilliant’ with a slightly British inflection.

I can’t say ‘Think’ apparently I must say ‘Tink’ like I have just stepped out of my apartment in Dublin.

Sometimes I say Mum, but somehow it sounds like there an ‘O’ has crept in amongst the ‘Ms’ instead of a ‘U’.

This isn’t something that really affects my life on a serious level, but it does cause problems. People look at you funny, people think you are doing it on purpose. It’s hard being me in those situations. So I feel in the range of serious diseases it is at least a semi-affliction. For it definitely rates a mention amongst other mental problems like Arachibutyrophobia and PAEDOPHOBIAP*.

Some may say I am the only one hence the lack of discussion.

But I feel other people suffer from this same malady too. I feel, though, that the sufferers are all trapped by embarrassment. No one wants to admit to the Feyz Syndrome (I have always wanted to name something after myself… what a proud moment). If you admitted to it, people would scoff, they would say “Oh yeah that sounds horrible, divert funds from developing communities in Africa so this nonce** can learn how to speak properly again”.

No instead we are silent victims. We do not speak in fear of scorn… or the fact that our accent may betray us.

*You thought I was going to tell you what these terms mean. Silly you. Are you not acquainted with the internet God’s directive, “Goggle My Children, Google”.
**Perfect example, when have I heard this word in a real life situation? Never.

P.S. Project Next do not be concerned that this personal crusade of mine will affect my office hours. Although a large part of me seeking the job with the national television exposure is to contribute to my cause. I shall not lie about my true intentions.

For a lie poison-eth the tongue, and make-eth the words soiled. (That last bit, well surely you know I have recently been dabbling in some Shakespeare… well Shakespeare in Love… do not mock-eth me!)

Solution Solved - You're Welcome Australia

I feel all the controversies relating to sport figures in recent times has a simple solution. Replace them. Not with another set of humans so we could see more tomfoolery. Bah humbug to that. No, instead we replace human athletes with robots. I know what the majority of naysayers are going to respond with, “Don’t be silly, how about when the robots become self aware and start rampaging against us humans when they realize we have held them captive for the purposes of our sick fun and amusement”. Good Point. Actually that is a really good point.

Bloody hell, if the players do anything bad right now at least we can slap them on the wrist. Make them quit their jobs, or at least go to counseling. If we had to deal with killer robots, well there would be no solution. The news wouldn’t be in the headlines, it would be at your front door! The worst bit would be when the robots decide they need more robots. Then they would reproduce, but because they’re robots the gestation period would be like 9 weeks. That’s a lot of robot babies.

Then if there are a lot of them how do we deal with the whole robot infrastructure thing. With ABC Learning Centers closing down right, left and center the current shortage of daycare providers would become worse. Then when robots get to school age do you need separate schools, separate syllabus, or an integrated system. But surely if there was an integrated system then gangs would form amongst the students, creating a whole new cycle of violence.

So, ok no robots.

So we put them in monasteries. If they are not near the ladies, they can’t abuse the ladies. You take away the problem. You force these men who regularly tackle other sweaty muscle men to the ground , so they can writhe around and wrestle as they look for that allusive ‘ball’, do be stuck with other men only. Solution solved. Although do nuns count as ladies. Well they surely do. So that just puts us in another problem. It’s like putting a ewe in the barn with a misbehaving fox.

Oh Okay! I got it, I got it! So my solution is this, get the mascots of each team just to fight with one another. For example, if it’s the Sharks verse the Rabbitohs we see a shark verse a rabbit. No! That’s ridiculous you say, how would a shark fare on land, how would a rabbit fare in water. That’s the genius. If it’s the home game for the Rabbitohs the match is on land, if it is a home match for the sharks then the match is played in water.

The only problem is the Dragons, how the shit am I supposed to find one of those?



P.S. This Project Next team demonstrates how good I am at solving problems. I’m a problem solver, a lot of people would have looked at this situation and would have said ‘It’s impossible’. I say, ‘I relish a challenge’.

Terrorism - is now – no longer an option

Last night I watched the film ‘The Bornhoffen Mistakes’*, and I realized that my life-long dream of being a conceptual artist/terrorist is unfortunately unable to proceed. Apparently terrorists have to be amazingly good looking. Not good looking in the sense that they have such an abundance of charisma and sense of danger that they become good looking. They need to be super good looking. Like I mean ‘blow things up on Saturday’ and then ‘model a nice set of woollen jumpers for a fancy catalogue on Monday’- good looking.

I could maybe manage modelling the before shot in a before and after advertisement. Maybe.

Plus to be a terrorist apparently you have to be uber-cool. So cool - that when you bathe - you take a bath not a shower, lest the awesomeness simply wash off and go down the drain. You have to view everyone else as being constrained by their bourgeoisie/imperialist constructed middle-class morality, which you are so above.
You have to spout long lines about how the revolution is coming and about how certain things are keeping us captors. How money drugs us. How fashion brainwashes us. Blah blah blah, something Mao said. Blah blah blah something Che said. Blah blah blah followed by big boom, followed by more blah blah blah.

It looks like a lot of wank followed by some fire and running around.

So disappointed. Being a person of Middle-Eastern heritage becoming a terrorist has long been a dream of mine. I had even been shopping around for a certain organisation. Now I have taken what was previously my shortlist and thrown it in the bin. Terrorism does not look fun enough. Oh and all that killing looks horrific.

So this Project Next thing better work out, either that or I am throwing myself into ballet.

*The film is actually called The Baader Meinhof Complex, but I can’t and I shan’t remember that. So the film is ‘The Bornhoffen Mistakes’.

P.S. ASIO this was a blog for funny. I know someone in some dingy office is shaking their head and saying terrorism is never funny. How true, I say, how true. Or they maybe saying I’m not funny. . How true, I say, how true. Just please whatever you do ASIO, don’t arrest me. I’m too charismatic for prison, I would inevitably cause a riot causing tax-payers in these tough economic times to foot an extraordinary bill. I wouldn't be able to help it, I'm just that good at inspiring people.

Racism is Bad, so very Bad...

I cannot say much. So I will say this.

Gruen Transfer is in trouble about racism
+
Gruen Transfer is a Zapruder Production
=
ABC and Zapruder bigotry
Therefore Feyz says BOOO! BOOOO! Outraged! Outraged! Never will watch… Won’t buy… Won’t support…

ABC and Zapruder Bigotory
+
Hiring Ethnic person on another Zapruder Production
=
PR Solution solved
Therefore Feyz should get a job on Project Next as penance for racism.

Therefore solution solved!


P.S. I know Zapruder was very respectful of the situation. And Feyz would like to say the views represented in this blog in no way represent her own.

Feyz Mehri – Official Biography

Feyz Mehri - born in the mountains were mortals dare not stray - was the second child of the God and Goddess Truth and Justice. Thrown out of the heavens when she was just a babe by her spiteful and ugly older sibling the Banshee she was lost to her immortal family. Fortunately, Feyz was found by a kindly, childless and somewhat elderly farming couple in the hillsides close to the heavens and the couple adopted the babe as one of their own.
At the age of seven her adopted mortal land experienced civil strife. Just a child Feyz chose to enlist in the army and whilst in the service single handedly saved her small kingdom from being ransacked by brutal invaders. Lauded as a hero amongst her people the King rewarded her by making her the betrothed of his heir the Good Prince of Topbicepians (or as he was more commonly known amongst friends, Hugh Jackman).
While growing up in the court of the King she was trained in the arts of being both Queen and Warrior. Her intelligence and skill coupled with her remarkable beauty made her renown through all the lands of the world. An asset to any kingdom, she was lauded as the Queen of Queens and one of Who’s most intriguing people of 45 BCE. She was essentially a very well liked individual.
And as her incredible feats grew to be more remarkable her name was eventually heard even by the Gods. Many of the Gods embroiled in damning PR scandals thought it may be a good publicity move to do a Photo Op with the woman who was getting more praise and worship then they were. But on the day the Photo Op was to occur the Banshee - recognising Feyz Mehri as her long lost sister – kidnapped the Queen of Queens.
Luckily the valiant Prince Topbicepian noticed his betrothed’s absence and gave chase. Unfortunately in too hastily giving chase he neglected crucial safety procedures and fell off his horse which instantly killed him. Luckily where he fell was close to where Feyz Mehri had escaped from her captors, and she instantly found her true love’s horse and body. Unfortunately after finding her true love’s body she was too shaken to finish her escape.
Lying down next to her true love she screamed at the injustice of it all. Her father being the God of justice felt a deity cringe of a job not well done, and feeling bad about his lack of professionalism on the job sought to redress the justice he had denied. They agreed that as Feyz Mehri had gotten such a bad deal in this incarnation of her existence she should be reborn again.
Reborn in the year 1990, Feyz Mehri’s recent incarnation was born as an over-indulged member of the middle class. Enjoying films and books, she hopes to one day also follow her dreams of being a ballerina.

Why I am exactly like Billy Elliot.

I just watched that Billy Elliot again for the first time in two years. As a result I have decided I do not need this Project Next thing. Instead I will pursue my original dream, I will become a ballerina.

Reasons why I should forget about everything else and just become a ballerina (like my hero Billy Elliot):
• I would look fantastic in a tutu.
• I need to lose weight, and wearing lycra on a daily basis would give me a semi-serious eating disorder (hurrah!)
• I would be constantly surrounded by very well-maintained male physics. Very well maintained physics that would only be clothed with a very clingy pair of tights.
• I would have a legitimate reason to randomly say wanky sounding French things (TRES BIEN! NON?)
• I would get so much attention.

They aren’t necessarily the best reasons for wanting to be a ballerina, but if all my dreams and hopes are crushed by this whole Project Next thing at least I have something to fall back onto.


Next time, on ‘The Blog’: Why watching Mighty Ducks taught me that I was supposed to be an ice hockey player…

Unleash the Crazy...

(While writing most of this my internet was very much not on a programming level. Obviously now that I have posted this my internet has re-connected. This is my journey without the internet.
This is the horror,
This is the demise,
This is a story of my boredom.)

7:02am => Wake-up.
7:32am => Wake-up again.
7:39am=> Wake-up again.
8:00am => Emerge from bathroom sparklier and emptier.
8:00 (and 32 seconds)am=> Go to study, switch on internet.
8:03am=> Internet not connected. Full blown panic.
8:09am=> Told to wait two hours, internet service provider problems in NSW.
8:14am=> Go out to buy breakfast. Cannot be close to my laptop. Cannot bring myself to explain to my laptop that it is partially disabled. Choose to avoid situation. Choose to go out. Promise to buy laptop a Get Well muffin.
8:20am to 11:30am=> Breakfast. See Friend I have not seen for a long time. Excitement, followed by awkward conversation. Go home. Approach home. See that someone is fixing broken line that was damaged in January. I am happy that it is finally being fixed.
11:34am=> WE HAVE LIFTOFF! Internet is working. Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!
11:37am=> Internet stops working. Loud noise from construction crew outside my house.
11:45am=> Construction worker approaches house. Says something to me.
11:50am=> Awake from anger blackout covered in blood.
11:52am=> Drag body of construction worker into my house, and cover it with a blanket.
11:55am=> Add Googling ‘How to Get Rid of a Body’ to my list of things to do.
Noon=> Internet still not working.
12:05pm=> Body of construction worker starts moaning. I am v. relived. I will not be charged with manslaughter after all.
12:10pm=> Construction worker awakes, is v. confused. I tell him he tripped, he seems fooled by my lie.
12:14pm=> He tells me everything should be fixed by about 3pm this afternoon.
12:18pm=> Message my Bro-in-Law. Ask him to tell me whether I have received any emails (specifically an email from the Project Next people, telling me anything yet).
12:19pm=> Get a message back from Bro-in-Law. He tells me, he is working, and that he has no time to pander to my eccentricities.
12:20pm=> Break all Bro-in-Law’s possessions that he has stored at our house. Only leave ugly vase Sissy got him.
12:22pm=> Try and repair Bro-in-Law’s possessions.
12:30pm=> Give up trying to fix Bro-in-Law’s possessions. Add sending him an ‘I’m Sorry’ e-card to my To Do List.
1pm=> Spend the last half and hour deciding I cannot do assignments without internet.
1:10pm=> Decide on a nap/ lunch break.
1:16pm=> Fall asleep.
3pm=> Wake-up.

Swine Flu: Is this Project Next thing all just a delusional symptom?

I have two theories about Swine-itus. One theory is that it is actually a very good conspiracy theory that shall be soon cracked. I have a few theories that I would like to contribute though, while we are conspiring:

DIGRESSION => Swine Flu – The Truth:

1. Mexico is currently experiencing a Zombie outbreak. So as to not alarm the world population international leaders have concocted the idea of an influenza pandemic. For which is more fearful, the undead returning or a bad cold with a funny name? That’s right crisis averted.
2. Obama is an ethnic President. The Mexicans are expecting him to open the borders. He can’t and he won’t. So how does one get out of such a conundrum, you quarantine a nation. You exaggerate the winter cold and then boom. You don’t lose the hearts and minds of the third biggest voting demographic in your country and you don’t have to deal with a bunch of pesky poor people applying for visas.
3. This is all a part of a peace plan for Palestine and Israel. Unite Muslims and Jews by making them laugh at non-believers and goys for eating swine products or interacting with swine products and then no more Boom.
4. Crazy socialists and Orwell were right when they made comparisons between capitalists and pigs. With the GFC and the Swine Flu quickly following one another, one can’t help but think that maybe… just maybe the illness that has infected the Global economy has mutated and become a viral infection. I’m just saying.
a. CONSPIRACY THEORY IN SEMI-SIMILAR VEIN: The crazy socialists and Orwellians have made Swine Flu and spread it, so as to further associate Swine with Capitalism. Those crazy Communists….

Though my other theory (which is not so much a broad conspiracy theory) is that I have swine flu. In fact I was the first person with swine flu. More than that I have had Swine Flu since the 30th of March, 2009 when someone called me up to inform me I was shortlisted for a job I could have only previously fantasized about having.

That in this constant state of delusion:
I also believe that I went to an interview.
I got emails from the production company for this project.
And that I recently got correspondence that tells me that all will be revealed in two-three weeks.

Or I am not delusional. I just have talent.

…

Yup, Nooo it’s Swine Flu. Goodbye then fair world. You have treated me moderately.

Life lessons from an adolescent.

I have not been on this earth many years. In fact I have only been on this earth for 19 years, yet with only that little time I think I have learnt some important lessons.
1. Don’t make fast movements around paranoid people. They will analyze it for hours and then respond badly.
2. You are not a racist so long as you have token friends.
3. If you want more space in a busy public place yell the following things: ‘Bee, a bee just stung me’, ‘Jesus is coming to judge you sinners’, ‘Beeeeep, beeeeeeeeeep, poopy fish’.
4. Telling old people they smell like death will not get you in their will.
5. Never ask a public servant if they find their job fulfilling.
6. If you are Middle-Eastern do not act too emotional at airports, it will lead to negative attention.
7. Your girlfriends aren’t that happy for you.
8. Never question the knowledge of a stupid person on a specific subject. It is probably the only thing they know fully, so they will be very sure about it and fighting with them will be futile.
9. Everyone has a deeply racist/crazy grandparent.
10. If in doubt, Google.
11. If you do not want to do something at the workplace/educational institution cite religious reasons.
12. Never believe anything a hypochondriac is telling you.
13. Never try and outdo your pretty friend in the looks department. Embrace your frumpiness and dress comfortably.
14. Do not buy sushi from the side of the road.
15. You will not get a letter from Hogwarts when you are eleven.
16. Do not assume an Asian person is Chinese. You may get a slap.
17. People do not care about another person’s dreams
18. … Follow your dreams…
19. Do not apply for a job you really want. Waiting for a response will be akin to torture.

My Fat Pants are starting to hurt me…

Every chubby girl has fat pants. These fat pants are not nice pants. They are generally bought on sale. They always have a faintly ugly pattern somewhere on them. And they are bought two years ago when someone goes through a really fat phase. A really fat phase that is quickly gotten out of, by this someone, because that someone recognizes that they were forced to buy new pants.
Oh the grief.
Oh the anger.
Oh the fat.
But fat pants are also very much loved. They are still brought out so they can occasionally play, because fat pants can very much come in handy.

The Subheading => I (HEART) FAT PANTS

Fat pants can come in handy in the following situations:

(a) Buffets/ Yum Cha. Stomachs expand when you put copious amounts of food in it. Fat pants catch that expansion.
(b) When you want people to compliment you – Example:
Person: “Oh my, have you lost weight?”
You: “Ummmmm… I don’t know have I? (I look down at pants, pinch excess material, pinch it outwards, form a tent peak, release) … yeah I guess I have…”.
(c) When you are expecting a response from an interview that was conducted 26 days ago.... I have swallowed all my anxiousness in sugary and/or lard form, and it was delicious… but also very bad. So bad I have gained about 3-5 kilos.

SO…

I have a commenced a plan of action. A new diet plan. This blog. I will take all this anxious energy, all these sugar rushes and inevitable sugar crashes and do something productive. Every time before I go to consume, I will produce. Because if I don’t I may need to upgrade my fat pants.

P.S. Mummy, Daddy, Sissy and Big-Bro-in-Law, this is a blog I made for the purposes of comedy. In the past 3-4 weeks I have not been binge eating. I have instead consumed numerous salads filled with legumes and vegetables. And you’re right they are both delicious and keeping me regular. Thanks Guys.

My Mummy wanted to comment…

My Mother is not quite sure how to do this. So I will comment for her:

1. My Mother has suggested that I mention Twitter, she hasn’t really elaborated on this. She just keeps on shouting, Twitter! Twitter! Twitter! So for my Mummy: TWITTER! (Thanks Mum, you’re right it is awesome).

2. My Mother has also suggested I do not title this Blog with the word ‘Rejection’. She thinks that this shows me in a bad light. She has suggested I title this, Project Next: I Believe in Myself. She does not mean this ironically.

3. From my Dad via my Mother: ‘Go study’.

P.S. My sister’s response to all of this, ‘I just want you to know I’m still the better writer’.

An Opportunity without a Chance

I am getting ready for an inevitable rejection.

To prepare myself for my own vortex of never-ending despair I have stock piled all the things I will need to get me through.

These things are:

Tissues – some are for crying. The others are for mixing with water to make myself a Tissue – Mache hat, for when I get bored in the very lonely place I will take myself to.

Torch - so that I can always remember the light in my time of darkness; and also so I can shine a light on the wall and play shadow puppets.

Tea-bags – inevitably I will be crying hot-salty tears. This will dehydrate me. So I will collect all those tears then dip in tea-bags, re-digest and hey presto, tasty hydration. Some say make lemonade out of lemons, I say make tea from tears.

Tools – there will be a moment in my anger and self-loathing where I will think I shall live in this angry moment forever. I need the necessary tools to dig myself out of this. Tools like confidence, passion and a shovel.

Television – I will watch a lot of this. Nothing more. I will just watch a lot.

All these things start with T. T is the 20^th letter of the alphabet, therefore, I think it will take me 20 years to get over this horrible rejection.

In that time I could have had a family, found true love, studied for multiple degrees.

Instead I will wallow. All because someone gave me an opportunity of a lifetime. Good one dickheads.