A Single Girl's Unguide

Ticking the 'single' box with a grin.

How to ensure your penis won’t make women want to trick you into a relationship.

I really didn’t want to turn this into another dating blog, but I feel the need to dispel some bullshit that I’ve noticed creeping into the male public consciousness.

Namely, the ubiquitous, hare-brained, How to Keep a Relationship Casual rules. Or more accurately, How to Stop a Bitch Falling in Love with You When You Put Your Dick in Her. You’ll come across the ‘rules’ in men’s magazines, dating blogs and various American sitcoms, and they include such charming, insightful nuggets of wisdom as never letting her sleep over, not going to restaurants together, not seeing each other during the day, and not being affectionate outside the bedroom.  

Sweet merciful fuck, these piss me off. I think it stems from this ridiculous all-pervading myth that all women want a long term relationship, and if you want to be a ‘playa’ you gots to learn how to fend off those ring-hungry harpies before they lock your ass down. Tied to this is the implicit assumption that men are so irresistible, women are prone to fall batshit crazy in love merely by spending time with them.  

Bitch, please. A lot of women enjoy casual sex. A lot of women are happy being single. A little communication goes a long way in this regard – if you’re banging someone then supposedly you share a common language, so you have no excuse for not making your intentions clear. This goes for both genders.

Casual sex is not just sex. Casual sex is all about having the relationship without the commitment. It’s fulfilling a basic primal need for touch, acceptance and a smattering of oxytocin, without any obligation to change a single thing about your lifestyle. If it was only about sexual release, we’d all be quite content to sit at home with a bottle of lotion and some Victoria’s Secret catalogues, or our vibrating rabbits and a Ryan Gosling movie.

Listen up: there is nothing wrong with treating a ‘casual encounter’ with the same courtesy you would afford any houseguest. Let them have a shower for god’s sake – no one likes driving home covered in sweat and other bodily fluids. Having a meal together doesn’t constitute a de-facto relationship in any state law on earth. If they live an hour away and it’s the middle of the night and you gave them five glasses of wine with dinner to get the in the mood, then fucking let them sleep over. They’re not trying to wait until you’re unconscious just to fill one of your bathroom cabinets with feminine paraphernalia and hang framed dolphin posters in the hallway; they’ve been grinding on your junk for an hour and probably just need a rest. And when they do leave, walking them to the door or the car or the train station is a basic courtesy your mama should have taught you.

Above all, talk. I know in these times of passive aggressive Facebook statuses and ambiguous text messages it’s difficult to have a frank face-to-face discussion, but it really will save you having to act like a first class douche-canoe to make your feelings understood. If you’re not in it for the long haul, then harden up and say it. There’s a good chance she feels exactly the same way, and will be grateful for a bath and a fucking nap.

I'd offer you a cup of tea but I'm scared it would make you want to marry me.

You fuckers have a lot to answer for.

 

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Reasons Why I’m Single

I can’t drink liquor without putting on my Fuck Off face.

When I wear liquid eyeliner it looks like it was drawn on by a one-eyed, epileptic goat.

I wear a men’s watch.

I wear men’s deodorant and use men’s razors because they both last longer.

You’re not allowed to buy me a drink.

I have a Fidel Castro impersonator living in my panties.

I need all the bedding every night to turn myself into a human doona-burrito.

If you drop a fried chip on the floor I will eat it.

I have a primal ‘flight or fight’ response when attractive men pay attention to me. ‘Flight’ is when I cover my face with my handbag and run away, and ‘fight’ is when I sleep with them within 45 seconds of meeting them. Neither is conducive to a second date.

I believe in astrology and astronomy.

When I drink tequila I replace every adjective in my vocabulary with ‘cunty’.

No, you can’t have a gun.

Your children are horrible.

*Note: Sorry, I didn’t quite realise I’d had a 7 month hiatus from blogging. This is why I can’t have nice things.  

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This is probably why I’m not Miss Universe.

I’m vaguely aware of the fact that Obama won the election and I didn’t. Despite this obvious oversight on the part of the American public (and the fact that I’m Australian, I guess), I’ve taken the time to put together a blueprint for my New World Order. It won’t please everyone, but screw you all, I’m the motherfucking PRESIDENT.

Oh hang on, no I’m not. Anyway.

Tertiary Education
Upon leaving high school, all young adults will be required to either:

  1. Complete a trade apprenticeship, or
  2. Spend an Austudy funded year studying abroad in a country with culturally dissimilar views.

This will ensure all our future citizens will be, at the very least, either useful or open-minded. Additionally, forcing tradesperson qualifications on a large portion of the community will result in a high percentage of females learning how to plumb, weld, repair vehicles and install circuitry. Need some kitchen cabinets installed? Oh hey, half the girls in your office can do the job. Uh oh, my engine’s making that clacking noise again – I’ll call my sister. How cool would that be?

Of course, there will be some smarty-pantses who know what they want to do with their lives straight out of the womb. Students hell-bent on starting a particular university degree immediately after high school must first complete a minimum of 6 months work experience in their chosen field before enrolling in a degree that will put them years into debt by the time they’re old enough to order a beer in the USA.

Family Planning
Everybody is to be sterilised at birth. Any person wishing to begin their reproductive career may do so by visiting their local GP for a no-questions-asked un-sterilisation procedure. Persons undergoing this procedure will receive a tattoo in their ear, so all future sexual partners will be aware that this person is happy to procreate. This should greatly reduce the number of Oops Babies and abortions. The rest of us are free to get it on like bunnies, with nothing more than herpes, AIDS, syphilis, chlamydia and gonorrhoea to deter us.

Primary Industry
The government will run regular campaigns, partially funded by our two monopolistic supermarket ‘giants’, to educate citizens on the logistics and effects of every single branch of the food industry. All consumers will be given a vivid awareness of factory farming, GMOs, live exports, dead imports, monoculture agricultural systems, dairy farming practices, abattoir procedures, and the absolute arsefucking that our sexy, tanned farmers receive at the hands of ColesWorths. Shopper demand will hopefully drive more government funding towards farming enterprises willing to commit to sustainable, ethical agricultural practices.

Environment
Plastic bags will be banned. The Great Pacific Garbage Patch isn’t some spunky British indie band – it’s an enormous gyre of plastic porridge floating in the middle of the sea. I think there are actually three garbage patches. Plastic is forever, guys. We’ve all seen those images of amputated turtles and penguins with six-pack rings all up in their grills. In addition to that, plastic breaks down into smaller and smaller pieces and gets eaten by smaller and smaller creatures. Maybe they’re not being choked or maimed – BUT THE POOR BASTARDS ARE EATING PLASTIC. Imagine if someone made you eat Weight Watchers frozen dinners every day?

I’ll summarise by paraphrasing a quote I can’t reference correctly because I forgot where I read it and can’t find it again: if plastic is one of our most durable materials, why do we use it to make disposable products?

Education
School curriculums will include (not as electives):

  1. Home budgeting. If you earn $500 per week and your living expenses are $300 per week, and you have a $150 a week gambling habit – then no, you can’t afford a wedding, a baby and a mortgage, no matter how much you love her. No ear tattoo for you.
  2.  Basic nutrition and physiology. Every young adult will leave school knowing about vitamins, minerals,  amino acids, fibre, cholesterol, body mass indices and the calorie content of popular foods.
  3. Politics. Seriously, how can a nation enforce compulsory voting without educating their citizens on what the hell they’re voting for or why they’re doing it?! I’m 30 years old and I’m ashamed to admit that right at this moment, I could not explain the difference between the Senate and the House of Representatives. Nobody ever told me. One has green bench seats and one has red. AWESOME JOB, QUEENSLAND BOARD OF EDUCATION.

I can haz ratification?

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When Single Men Turn Feral

I have been a happily and only occasionally distressed Single Lady for over five years now. In that time, I’ve come to the somewhat bewildering conclusion that single men do not want women to engage with them unless they intend to pull their tits out. Unless you want to take a ride on the disco stick, you better back the hell up, sister.

I’ll admit that conversation between the genders can be a minefield of misunderstandings, but I’d like to hope that both sides can accept that a) we’re both human beings with proper human being feelings, and b) we are no longer toddlers and it’s not appropriate to hurl your Lego at the cat because someone won’t let you eat a cookie. Single men completely shatter my idealism.

Before I commence my rant, a couple of caveats:

  1. I do not condone women flirting with men with the sole intent of garnering free drinks, a ride home or other favours. This behaviour is repulsive to me. By all means talk to men; flirt with them if you feel so inclined – but for god’s sake don’t treat them like walking ATMs. Have some self-respect, you fucking idiot.
  2. I understand there is a faction of women who “lead on” men in which they have no interest, merely because they enjoy the attention. This is a self-esteem issue and to those ladies: you owe it to yourself to get your shit together.

Onto my anecdotes. I have a swag of stories about men cracking the shits when they realise a woman merely enjoys their personality and has no interest in their bodily fluids, but here are two of my favourites.

My friend Jane has been blessed with a magnificent bosom. Whenever we go out together they’re usually on proud display, because a) they’re aesthetically lovely and b) they’re damned hard to hide. The other night she caught the eye of a friendly, funny young electrician, and the three of us had a lively chat over our drinks. Then Jane carefully dropped the subject of her absent boyfriend into the conversation.

Well, you’d think someone had snatched away his teething ring. His face flickered through several emotions, before settling on ‘indignant sneer’.

“If you have a boyfriend, why do you dress like that?” said previously friendly, funny young electrician.

“Excuse me?”

“Why would you dress like that? You’re a whore.” And just like that he gathered up his offended morality and stalked off into the crowd.

Jane, who’s fiery at the best of times, strode after him with a blaze of invective and clocked him in the head with the kind of right hook that only a girl with older brothers can deliver. Twice. Hopefully he won’t be calling any girl a whore any time soon.

In a similar vein, one night I met a hearing impaired gentleman. He was at the pub with some other deaf friends, and their sign language across the bar attracted my attention. Having had a ‘couple’ of vodkas at that point, I was probably staring more than is polite. One of them noticed my indiscretion, waved hello and offered to buy me a drink. I declined, but we had an amusing little conversation about his friends and the dodgy people around us. I confess I haven’t had much exposure to the hearing impaired community, and I was amazed at how skilled he was at communicating with facial expressions, gestures and body language.

Eventually I excused myself and continued on my merry way, until an hour or so later while giving my dancing feet a rest, he plopped himself down on the couch next to me and put his hand on my leg. I gently removed it and asked how his night was going. The conversation deteriorated somewhat when I tried to be funny and convince him I’d undergone a sex change operation, at which point he asked me to prove it. I laughed it off and said no. He made the international gesture for cunnilingus. I raised an eyebrow. He mouthed “what do you want from me?” and I replied that I liked chatting to him. He asked several more times, until finally I told him I wasn’t going to sleep with him. His face underwent a very similar transition to Previously Friendly Electrician, then he clearly mouthed “you’re full of bullshit” and stomped off while giving me the finger.

In both of these scenarios, Jane and I had probably miscommunicated our level of interest on initial contact. On the other hand, is she supposed to scream immediately in the face of any man who approaches her “I HAVE A BOYFRIEND!!!!” and run away? Do I have a set amount of time to gauge my interest in a bloke before I’m labelled one of those egregious creatures who ‘leads guys on’? How am I supposed to figure out whether I like a man without talking to him first? Why can’t I have a humorous conversation with a fellow traveller on the mortal coil? If I’m enjoying the conversation but don’t want his penis inside me, how does that make me a bad person?

I realise that in a nightlife environment, there’s a fine line between having a chat and moist-eyed flirting. Throw in a few beverages and the inherently abysmal intuition of most men, and there’s obviously a lot of room for misinterpretation. However, there’s no excuse to throw an epic hissy fit when a girl tells you she has a partner or is plain uninterested in sleeping with you. If a lady is talking to you (and she’s not one of those idiots I mentioned above), she probably likes talking to you. This means she appreciates you, regardless of the fact that she has no interest in you sexually. She thinks you’re a nice person – right until the point you call her a whore, or give her the cold shoulder to feel up the semi-conscious redhead in the corner. Show some decorum, you disrespectful twat. Be grateful your entire gender has not been reduced to sexual objects, being consistently insulted and dismissed for nothing more than a disinclination to spread your legs on any given night.

So you think you’ve just wasted 20 minutes talking to a girl, when you could’ve spent that time tracking down another target? You’re missing something, Tantrum Boy. Most women have female friends, of which several may be single. Some of them may even want to have sex with you, provided your friend tells them what a nice person you are. But for Pete’s sake, don’t take that as an excuse to start blithely handing your number to all her friends as if you’re networking at an industry conference.

I should also add that if a woman is finding you attractive on a personal level, she’s only one train stop away from finding you attractive on a physical level. Just look at this ugly fucker:

Would you honestly make googly-eyes at this bloke if he was a regular at your local?

And yet girls went nuts for him after Bridesmaids. Because he was kind and delightful and didn’t go around calling busty women whores and throwing tantrums because he couldn’t get his cock wet.

Of course, if you want to be really rebellious – you could enjoy the opportunity to spend time with women as fellow human beings, rather than walking, talking fleshlights.

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Don’t replace your Best Friend with a penis.

There’s an ad on Australian television at the moment for the dating site eHarmony. A purple-frocked woman cheerfully relates how eighteen months ago she forked out an exorbitant amount of cash, freely gave her personal details to a marketing giant, met the love of her life, and now he’s her best friend.

I feel for this woman if her best friend is a man in a Kmart shirt she met eighteen months ago. Way to cheapen the hallowed institution of the Best Friend, lady.

We women BFF each other from the second we’re old enough to apply Playdough to each other’s hair. We share our Roll-ups, swap friendship bracelets, get stupid tattoos and make matching Savage Garden pendants. We’re not consciously aware of it at the time, but our reptilian brain is hard at work hoarding friendships that will hopefully survive through all the jerkwads life throws at us, as well as all the times we’re jerkwads to others. It’s built into our nature because deep down, we know our girlfriends are bound to outlast our menfriends. Even if you find your soul mate, and he worships you and thinks your hair looks sensational at 6am, and looks like Ryan Gosling and has no odd sexual deviations that would get him incarcerated…statistically, he’s going to die before you. There’s also a 33% chance  you’ll wind up divorced.

And this is where the investment in friendship bracelets and Playdough is supposed to pay off. But most of the time, it doesn’t. You find yourself alone in a half-furnished apartment, fiddling with half a Savage Garden logo on a piece of string and trying to garner the courage to dial a phone number you used to know off the top of your head.

Why do we put more effort into our relationships than we do into our friendships? Why is the hunt for a mate painted as the paramount achievement, while the importance of female friendships is so underplayed? Why do I go to a posh restaurant to celebrate a 6 month anniversary, when my own Best Friend and I have never celebrated a single milestone over 15 years of friendship?

Men, on the other hand, seem to understand this concept of nurturing friendships. Visit any pub or sporting oval, and there they are in all their stubbly glory; one happy, boisterous flock. One only has to wander around Blockbuster for five minutes to realise that the ‘bromance’ is in no danger of extinction. The ‘homance’, on the other hand…well, we’ve had Thelma & Louise and Bridesmaids. Both of which are fairly extreme sides to the picture I’m trying to paint here. Do feel free to give me some further examples that aren’t mournfully sappy chick-flicks. And please don’t commit unwarranted suicide with your favourite girlfriend.

So, purple-frock lady, I hope your actual Best Friend never sees your ridiculous advertisement.  I can tell you exactly what my own Bestie would do if I told her she’d been replaced by some bloke I’d met on the internet a year ago. She’d give me a high five in the face, then snatch that Savage Garden pendant off me faster than I could say ‘Ya Ya Sisterhood’.  And I’d deserve it.

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Budget Bonanza #1

As we’re all aware, managing one’s finances is vital in a one woman household. Or any household really, unless you’re Jay Z and Beyonce. Which I suppose I can safely assume you’re not. Anyway, I’ll freely admit I spend far too much money on wine, Tasmanian salmon and Himalayan salt rock tea light holders. On the other hand, I’ve picked up a few money saving ideas over the years which I’d love to share with you all. Some of them may change your life, but most of them will probably won’t.

I’ll start the first instalment on the stickiest note I can think of: menstrual cups. This is probably a good time to advise any gentleman readers that you might be more comfortable browsing elsewhere for now.

Taste the rainbow

For ladies who take colour blocking seriously.

If you’re not sure what I’m talking about yet, menstrual cups are a reusable silicon receptacle to be used in place of tampons. When I first read about them I was, quite predictably, appalled. Who would do that to themselves?

As it turns out, I would.

Now apparently, cramming a party popper up your clacker at that time of the month isn’t everyone’s idea of a heel-thumpin’ hoe down. Just bear with me, though.

I first found out about menstrual cups about eighteen months ago, along with reusable pads. Obviously my initial thought was “Christ on a biscuit, what kind of sage-burning hippy does that?!”, then I promptly forgot about them. A few months ago I decided to make a determined effort to make better consumer choices, both for the planet and for myself, and the good ol’ rubber coot plunger popped back into my consciousness.

From what I can gather, there are three leaders on the market: the Mooncup, Diva Cup and Lunette. I chose the Lunette, because it’s the only one that comes in a range of colours. I’m picky about what I put in there, thanks. Until there’s tequila involved.

Being better for the globe and your genital health, menstrual cups seem like an absolute no-brainer …until of course you factor in the resultant cocktail of goo and tissue you’re meant to deal with in a dignified and lady-like manner. This seems to be what appals people initially, myself included. Granted, it’s not quite as convenient as the standard Kotex swap-n-go, but then again you’re not messing around with your lady junk and lady gunk any more than you normally would at that time of the month. Plus you end up with a radiant sense of achievement at the end of it.

So the idea is you tip the liquid down the toilet, wipe or rinse out the cup, and pop it back in. You can buy a little purse pack of disinfectant wipes to clean it with, which to me negates the point of buying a reusable product. Various websites state you can just use toilet paper, or a bottle of water you carry around for the purpose. I’d recommend getting the wipes/paper/water bottle ready before you remove the cup, otherwise you’ll be left flailing around one handed and probably drop the damn thing in the toilet. Or worse yet, on the floor where it will bounce merrily into the stall next door and possibly cause a law suit.   If you’re a low flow kind of gal, you can leave it in all day and accomplish all this in the shower when you get home.

From a utility standpoint, it’s fantastic. It does the job (for me) without issues, it’s comfy, and you don’t have to change it as often as tampons. If you’re the type that’s nervous about things getting lost in the funpipe, it’s probably not for you – I must admit it tends to go exploring on its own, and sometimes some spelunking is required to locate the tab on the end. It’s WAY bigger than a tampon (think shot glass…da da da da da da da, TEQUILA), which feels a little bizarre at first but you do become accustomed to it. Getting it in isn’t really a problem, you just squish it into quarters and it pops open once it’s in place, like a two man tent. Pulling it out is a bit challenging, because a) it’s suctioned into place, and b) it’s like getting an open umbrella through a car door. The website recommends a ‘gentle rocking motion’, and also advises that occasionally you need to slide a finger around the edge to break the suction in order to remove it. I have sharp nails so I prefer to utilise the ‘brute strength’ approach myself; this hasn’t let me down yet, and I’ve yet to lose an eye.

It comes in two sizes:  willowy virgin and Mariana Trench. I chose the first one, because I’m vain like that. There are five colours to choose from, each with a pretentious name and backstory . For example:

Áine is the Goddess of moon, love, fertility and Midsummer in Irish mythology. She was later known as an Irish Fairy Queen”

 I’m not sure what the hell they’re talking about. We’re supposed to be discussing basic sanitation here; it’s not open mic night at a fucking bong convention.

In summary – I’m a card carrying convert. I don’t think it’s for everyone, but if the only thing that’s holding you back is the gross-out factor then you’re doing yourself a disservice.  Let’s face it girls, we’ve had much more unsanitary things up there than an innocuous silicon cup.

Lunette cup: AUD $55 plus shipping (effective life is advertised as 10 years)
Tampons/Pads/Half a roll of emergency toilet paper:  AUD $84 per year.
Saving: AUD $78.50 per year.

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10 Reasons Why It’s REALLY AWESOME To Be Single!

So this was supposed to be a reblog to aysjaysandayches but apparently I’m a fucking moron.

10 Reasons Why It’s REALLY AWESOME To Be Single!.

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Slut Shaming & Other Unproductive Girly Behaviour

In the words of Jenna Marbles, women may be “majestic fucking creatures”, but sometimes our behaviour makes it seem like we’re intent on digging ourselves back into the 1700’s. I’ve certainly been guilty of all of the following, and chances are you have been too.

Slut Shaming

“She looks like a total prostitute.” – from Baby Got Back, Sir Mix-A-Lot

At one time or another, we’ve all made a similar reference to another member of the sisterhood. The first thing that’s wrong with this statement is the inherent assumption that there’s something wrong with prostitution. Those women make astonishing amounts of cash doing things the rest of us do pro bono; trust me, they’re the clever ones.

Secondly, if a gal’s comfortable enough in her body to wander around with any part of her anatomy hanging out, then more power to her. So what if she has cellulite, saddle bags, psoriasis or cleavage from here to Coonabarabran? You’re a pristine specimen of feminine perfection and style yourself, are you? No? Then shut up. We’re all in this together, and by tearing each other apart like bitchy, rabid hyenas we’re setting a terrible example for how the menfolk should treat us.

Finally, if a woman is doing a lot of pro bono activities with a lot of different men, and she’s doing it happily and confidently (not in a misguided pursuit for self-esteem – that’s a whole other subject which I should probably leave to professionals to blog about), then she bloody well deserves respect for it. It’s 2012 ladies, and I hereby proclaim that it is perfectly fine to fuck.   

Being Mean to Men

Whilst it may appear that men are emotionless, oblivious amoebae, sometimes their brains undergo a chemical reaction that could loosely be defined as feelings. These ‘feelings’ may occur when they decide you’re a bit of alright, try to hit on you, and you shoot them down in the nastiest way possible. It could be with a disgusted look, derisive laughter or a snapped dismissal. This is completely obnoxious behaviour, and results in the amoeba feeling sad, unworthy and stupid. Poor amoeba. Just because you’re not interested, does not mean another woman won’t be. He’ll see her waiting at the bar, with her nice haircut and pretty smile, but he’ll decide he won’t speak to her because she’s probably an arsehole like every other girl he speaks to. So congratulations, with one nasty remark you’ve just ruined the potential love lives of two people. Smile and be kind instead.

By extension, if the meeting somehow does progress into a relationship, try not to mess him up too much for the next girl if things go awry. Emotionally, women are much better equipped to recover from heartbreak, mind games, and all the resultant detritus of a failed relationship. We talk, we cry, we listen to Adele…and we heal. By contrast, men crush all their negative emotions into a little box with their broken hearts, then lock them away and let the contents disintegrate like compost. Ladies, please don’t turn a semi-composted man loose into the sisterhood. We’ve all encountered one of these poor souls; it’s like dating a can of soup. Don’t be nastier than necessary.

Willful Mechanical Ignorance

If you own a motor vehicle, you should make friends with it. If you’re already one of those women who knows her way around an internal combustion engine, you are amazing and can go to another blog now. The rest of you are also amazing, but you need to go out to your cars right now, lift the bonnet and have a poke around inside. I promise you won’t sprout a 5 o’clock shadow and your lady parts won’t spontaneously explode inside out into a giant pair of testicles.

Learn what the main components are, and what they do. Start the motor, and have a friend step on the accelerator (it’s usually best to make sure the vehicle is in neutral at this point, otherwise you will most likely be run over and killed). You’ll see a lever-type component moving back and forth in sync with the revs (usually on the driver’s side, but not always) – this lever is attached to the throttle body, and you can move it yourself to rev the engine from under the hood. This serves no real purpose other than making you look like you have a vague idea what you’re doing when you have your head under there.

At the very least, you should know how to check your oil, inflate your tires, top up your radiator and refill your windscreen washer. All of this information readily accessible on the internet, so you have no excuse. I guarantee all of you are doing things in your everyday lives that are much more complicated than basic car maintenance.

Body Obsession

“Is your body mass somehow tied into your selfworth?” – Sheldon Cooper, The Big Bang Theory

We’re all guilty of this one. We pluck, wax, thread, dye, exfoliate, moisturise, whiten, bleach, foil, extend, enlarge, reduce, diet, detox, botox, Xerox, homogenise and motherfucking pasteurise. We obsess over our weight, our proportions and the tone of our skin. Obviously it’s important to look after yourself and take pride in your presentation, but I don’t think anyone can deny we’ve become completely obsessive compulsive about it. As we speak, there are ladies out there bleaching their anuses for god’s sake. There are women in consultation with a surgeon to make their labia prettier. There’s a size 12 girl with delightful proportions scowling at herself in the mirror and calling herself fat.

Stop this shit, right now. Stop focusing on what your body looks like, and think about what it can do. It can hug your loved ones. It can gestate and expel a whole other human. It might be able to do the splits, or dislocate a shoulder as a party trick. It can bang a guy so well he can’t remember his own name. Maybe it can run 10 kilometres, or see things in the distance without glasses. Perhaps it can compose a self-righteous blog post with virtually no references or source material.

As a final note, I think this is something every woman needs to read: Bearded Sikh woman teaches Reddit a lesson . Abridged version: young Sikh woman doesn’t give a fuck that she has a beard, because your actions will always have more impact than your physical form.

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Cyber style.

I know I wasn’t going to post about dating, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t say something about online dating. It holds massive entertainment value, and everyone knows someone who claims to have met their beloved through an online dating site. I have no doubt they’re lying.

Having spent a few years drifting through the desperation-drenched cyber corridors of RSVP.com.au, I feel qualified to put together a brief manual for men, on the art of selling yourself online. Or should I say, the art of selling yourself to me online, because occasionally my views differ from other ladies. Astonishingly, the grey moosh inside our pretty little heads is not identical.

Anyway, let’s go:

  • RSVP lets you post about five photos. This feature is designed to showcase your physical appearance. Your appearance, not your Rottweiler’s.  I don’t give a shit what your dog looks like. Or your motorbike. Or your Commodore. If you post a picture of your fully sweet ute with Southern Cross decal on the rear windscreen, I’m going to assume you have a teeny tiny penis and beat your woman when you’ve had too many frothy ones.
  • Take off your damn sunglasses. If you’re wearing sunglasses, I’m going to assume it’s because without them, you look like this bloke:

It’s ok, he’s a registered sex offender from Ohio.

  • Don’t submit a shirtless photo you captured yourself with your iPhone in your toothpaste-flecked bathroom mirror. What are you, a sixteen year old girl? Are you gonna duckface and Instagram it for me too, honey?

Well hello there.

  • In fact, no shirtless photos full stop. They’re a little creepy. Believe it or not, if you have a great physique, we women can tell even if you’re wearing clothes. It’s one of our super powers.
  • Try and be relatively coherent in your blurb, and avoid descending into complete fucking gibberish like this:

I am an Artist/ Poet/ house renovations/incudles/intera/excetrapainter /gyprock plaster !
and am saveing up for my first home! buyers Grant
I am the most truthful Postive bloke you could ever possiably meet !
I am now ready for a longterm relationship ! and possible marriage ! & more than ready to commite !!!!! ♥ I am careing cool, calm and collective Soul with an a nick name of Henderskeg I earned it at school ! due to being a surfer dude skeg growing up 

Well good for you. I think. Because I have no idea what the hell I just read.

  • Attempt to be remotely original. Could you even explain what ‘down to earth’ means if somebody asked you? Do you think ‘my family and friends mean the world to me’ is an unheard of trait? Do you think there are people who don’t “enjoy a night out with friends or snuggling on the couch with a movie”? You might as well write “I am a warm-blooded vertebrate.”
  • If you say you’re funny, it might be worth adding something to your profile that makes it mildly more amusing than my Melways. Otherwise, women will decide you’re duller than a bag of flour.
  • If you are 38 years old, and specify your preferred partner as “18 to 30”, then you are a deluded c**t and I will judge you for it.
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In the beginning.

You know what I’m sick of? Being single.

Not because I’m 30 years old, watching the radiance of my youth flicker and fade after each Smirnoff Black on a Saturday night.

Not because 90% of my friends and family are married, mortgaged and maternatied. Yes, it’s a word (now).

Not because having a dual income would be amazing. I can’t even fathom having that much fucking money.

Not because occasionally, it would be nice to have someone other than the cat pawing at me.

No. I’m sick of being single because everybody on the planet thinks you’re a lonely, husband-grabbing, vodka-swilling, sobbing-into-your-snuggie  superwhore.

Thanks to imbeciles like Bridget Jones, Carrie Bradshaw and oh, every single fictitious female character ever written, everyone assumes you’re on a frenzied hunt to snag the man of your dreams. How can your life have purpose when you have no one to share it with? Who do you think you are, setting goals when you haven’t even managed to achieve the goal? What are you, some kind of lesbian?

Never mind the fact that you’re awake until 3am every morning writing your dissertation, or working 70 hours a week in an inner-city law firm, or merrily banging a different hot Mediterranean boy from CQ every other weekend; at the end of the day, you’re still going to contend with unsolicited idiocy like this:

“I can’t believe you’re single! You’re so pretty!”
“You’ll meet someone when you stop looking.”
“It’ll happen when you least expect it!”
“If you want a husband, you can take mine. Ha! Ha!”
“Are you being too picky?”
“I’m glad some people don’t settle for just anyone.”
“So I have this friend Victor who just separated from his wife…”

Stop this shit. Right now. You will never hear a single girl say anything of the sort to a fellow singleton. Do you know why? Because we don’t actually care that we’re single.

No, I’m serious. Unless your friend is gnashing their teeth and crying into your sweater about the trauma of having to finish an entire lettuce before it wilts, they probably don’t care about their marital status. They’re probably living the exact same life you are, without the added obligation of having to explain where they are at 4am on a Friday night, or why they’re dancing to “Whoomp! (There It Is)” wearing nothing but one Essendon sock on a Tuesday afternoon. Trust me, they’re fine.

And this is what this blog will be about. Not love, dating, or how to meet a man who’s not going to slip a roofie in your Redbull and dump you in The Grampians. It will be a celebratory discourse on the logistics and realities of the single life for a woman in 2012. When I’m not trying to rustle yo’ husbands, that is.

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