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!