Consent is sexy… getting someone’s name before you proposition them is even sexier…

Consent is sexy... getting someone's name before you proposition them is even sexier...

Soooo it’s been a below average week. Working heaps and not writing much (anything) is bad. The lack of productivity is compounded by a death in the family. Well not my legit blood related family. Just the family that counts, the family that whangaied me (adopt/foster) when I was a pre teen.
So I’ve held it together okay. I don’t really cry much even when everything is agony and razor blades. However, I thought it would be prudent for my mental health to get on the vodka and go dancing. Just at the pub up the road. I ended up going by myself. This is not a bad thing. Most of my adventures are solo. I hit the birthday vodka (copper distilled barley goodness from London), put on some tunes and got ready (see selfie). I trotted down the road to the Commercial where Saturday night is always a party and the most glamazon molls on the dancefloor are gender bending and fabulous. I danced to Snoop Dogg, Maroon 5, Beyonce, Fatman Scoop and all sorts of trashy pop/rap/r&b…
I was also propositioned by a fulla who wanted to first buy me a drink (I politely declined as I had drunk 3 double Grey Gooses in 1 hour). I spoke with him briefly when he came back to tell me there was no bar person available. I told him to seek assistance from a member of the security team and went back to my Facebook shenanigans. He got served and came and sat near me and I heard a good hook and absented myself for the dance floor. I had another great boogie and when I paused for a drink break he came up to me again and asked if I had a boyfriend. My quizzical reply was “What would I need one of those for?” Bear in mind I was three and a half sheets to the wind by this stage (past 2:30am). He then asked for my number. I said, “Why would you want my number when you haven’t even asked for my name?” He proceeded to tell me his name and asked for mine. I told him and then bumped knuckles with him. He then asked me for my number again. I had to thank him for his interest but inform him that I was not at the pub for that reason. Hence why I had picked a tranny bar. He looked at me as though I had lost my mind. I then informed him that my foster mother had passed away during the week and I was at the pub to get drunk and dance. Finito. Thank you for asking me. Don’t take this the wrong way, however I am not here for that. I smiled politely the whole time. The last time I smiled this much was during a job interview. Do cis gendered het males really think women go to gay clubs/ drag queen venues/ tranny bars to pick up? To be sexually available to them? If this is so, I need to stop going out all together. I’ve never gone out to ‘pick up’. I only want to dance. Especially now I’m not in a wheelchair. Especially because I can. Especially because I’m physically able to do so. The evening was brought low by someone else’s selfishness. I’m sure the chap involved didn’t see it as a selfish act but when another person politely declines your offer of a drink and then has to resort to the brutal truth of a family tragedy to dissuade your pursuit, it’s a fair bet they are not interested. Perchance my perception of this episode is overwrought. Perhaps it is a minor miracle that I did not punch, kick or head butt anyone tonight. There is no great message within this post. Just remember this: Everyone is fighting their own battle, so be gentle. Perhaps that is a great message… Now don’t forget to drink plenty of water before bed and put some ibuprofen on the bedside table…

Ice hockey

In the Antipodes it’s called ice hockey.  I try to go most weekends, during season and when I’m in the state/ country. I’ve just returned from a game.  We lost to Newcastle, 2 – 0. They’re hard to beat every game, every season. I’m not a puck bunny. I’m the antithesis of such a notion.  I’ve been following the team before they moved to their nice, clean, and resplendent rink.  I followed them when they needed me to help out making sandwiches for the team on tour, buttering sandwiches on an ironing board, helping the mothers of the players and board members/ staunch supporters who travel with the team interstate… Before we won three championships in a row.  Whether they win or lose, I’ll get outrageously drunk at the pub after it and talk a load of old bollocks to lots of people. Because that is what you do when you follow a team whether they win or lose.

Just because your new boyfriend (real or imaginary) plays (or wishes he could),  doesn’t mean you should start showing up/ taking an interest. Oh, you only pretend to care because he does and you get paid in orgasms? That’s more like it, you mercenary, you!  That was me being facetious. Yeah, I didn’t think you would pick up on the subtleties.  Hence why I pointed out the glaringly obvious.  Even though I am very drunk, post hockey. Currently having to triple and quadruple edit everything I type.  I’ll move on to writing my magnum opus now.  See you all at the bar… Or if you’re a real fan, at the game.  Even when the team loses.


My wheelchair, my abuser…



Soooo… This is a quick one about the writer who is fairly unco at th best of times (except on the dancefloor, go figure). The surgeon says Iʻm healing up okay after his assault with a scalpel. They took the cast off and had a look and were quite satisfied with their handiwork. I looked and thought I was colonising some necrotising fascitis (flesh eating virus). Talk about black death (yersina pestis) just hanging about on the back of my leg. If I could cry I probably would. But I can’t so instead I write about it.
Iʻm lamenting the ta moko (tattoo) that runs down the back of my leg that looks like Wolverine had a go at it. There are two lines of script running Matrix style down the back of my legs.
The left one is a quote from Romeo and Juliet. I had this done on January 8, 2011(Elvis’ birthday), to commemorate my move back to New Zealand to deal with unfinished (family) business and continue my studies.
The right leg is a poem called
Again and Again by a German bloke called Rilke. This was done on September 8, 2011 (just after mine and Keanu’s birthdays) to commemorate surviving the continuous earthquakes in Christchurch where I was living in NZ. This is the leg that was ʻmodified’ by the surgeon’s touch. As far as I can tell only the first four or five words of each line are now illegible…
Again and Again is a beautiful love poem that froze my heart over for a good fifteen to twenty seconds (in a good way) and then jumpstarted it with some dodgy frayed cables the first time I read it. I don’t know much about love at first sight (except with dogs, particularly black labs) but that poem kicked my arse. And it was a great thing and I knew after a few re – reads that I wanted those words on my skin forever. Which I did the following year.
Eventually in a few years time I may think about getting my tattoo artist, Holly, to fix it up in some way. For now I’m just glad I may be able to walk without the help of a frame, crutch or the menacing wheelchair that manages to leave some spectacular bruises, particularly when I get drunk (legless) and decide to wheel myself home from a friends house party…
The filthy bruise marring my dragonfly and sakura (cherry blossom) tattoo showed up Saturday after my escapades the night before. I thought I’d gotten lucky at the party and had some rough (passionate) sex because I was covered in bruises on my non cast covered left leg, aforementioned tattoo marred arm and my throat felt like I had been choked. I’m not into breath control/ play so I had to ask my housemate if I had gone home with someone and just forgotten.
She figured out that my assorted bruises were not the good kind (sex bruises) but from the wheelchair and its unwieldy metal parts. The choking was caused by being in a room with four people chainsmoking. Joy!
Eventual free range mobilty is even more sought after now that I know my ability to leave a room for fresh air is also impinged upon by the red chair of death. I’m trying to see the bright side, someone suggested it was my chance to get falling down drunk and get my friends to enable this behaviour. This someone may have been me in a mental note to self… Which I fully intend to indulge this coming weekend. Punk gig Saturday afternoon and first home game of the season for the ice hockey, here I come. Both days I will be ably assisted by willing co- conspirators, so life isn’t all bad (this week). Just got to get the chair o’ doom to cooperate and we might try for a bruise free weekend. Treat yourself, TX!

Delayed post

There will be a post. Later. When I can see th keyboard properly… When I’ m not telling my friend’s cat to ‘come at me bro’. Possibly about th slippery topic of nostalgia. I may be too distracted by th chirping birds (feckers) and nomming my cheez sammich. Th least offensive pic in my phone is something with trees. Enjoy & stay tuned…


January was a party that never really ended. As the Southern Hemisphere is wont to do, the weather was extreme and thus most of my time was spent indoors with the air conditioner blasting or outside drinking copious amounts of fluids which may or may not be conducive to writing, schedules, editing and sobriety…

I needed to blow off a lot of steam. Things did not go well with some sectors of my friendship network, in fact some went thermonuclear and there is still a lot of space junk floating around as a result.
I have endeavoured to clear the air and restore my soul by spending my time in more leisurely activities, thus my lack of writing this blog. I write this not as an apology to the occasional casual reader of my musings, more as a reminder to myself that I am allowed to recuperate from certain life events by any means necessary. I often forget to give myself some slack and then I crash headlong into a wall built of antipathy and coated in ennui.

Red, red wine

‘Shut up, slapper.’ There are some things you can get away with saying when you are three sheets… The obvious response to this colourful rejoinder is, of course ‘You’re a soft cock! Ooh, it’s Nicki Minaj!!!’ Saturday night in the suburbs can be tempered by hip hop, booze, drunken make up lessons and some other female bonding rituals that can not be mentioned on a blog for fear of being ostracised… If I wasn’t writing via phone I would pursue this topic with deep and unadulterated zeal. Promise 😉