Adulting is easy. It’s like making a cup of tea.

When you’re a small child, adults are fucking awesome. Sure, they might be the Enforcers of Rules (and let’s be honest, Rules suck) but they’re all grown-up and sophisticated and they have the answers to everything. They get to leave the house by themselves, and be in charge of what they do in every moment of every day. It’s kind of magical. It’s a level of life that you desperately can’t wait to unlock.

Some weird teenagey shit happens, you blink, and all of a sudden you ARE an adult, and yeah, it’s pretty cool for about.. three and a half minutes. But then you’re like “…..wait. Shouldn’t I have had some formal training first? What are stocks? How do I soft-boil an egg?”


One of the fun parts of early-adulthood years is discovering things that you should probably know how to do, but have absolutely no clue. And sure, you could ask another adult for help, but you’d rather swim around in your ocean of incompetence than let anyone in on the secret that you have no idea what the fuck you’re doing. A prime example of this is when I was on my first ever nursing placement in an aged care home. We were helping the residents with their meals, and I was asked if I could make some cups of tea.

“Sera, can you make Andrew and Betty some tea? One white with two, one black with equal. Not too hot though. But not cold. But definitely not too hot.”

So I smile and nod and walk over to the tea making table, and I try my hardest to make it look like I am not having a mild anxiety attack, because this is the moment where I realise I’ve never made a cup of tea in my life, and I don’t know how a fucking tea bag works.

I don’t know the process, I don’t know how long to leave the tea bag in for – do I even take it out at all? – I don’t know if I’m supposed to dunk the tea bag or swirl it around, I THINK I’ve seen someone squeeze theirs, how do I squeeze a tea bag without burning myself? How hot is too hot? Is there a difference between a young person’s idea of “too hot” and a 90 year old gentleman with Parkinson’s idea of “too hot”? Am I going to be held personally responsible for burnt tastebuds? Is the water to milk ratio the same as coffee? What the fuck is equal? What happens if my preceptor (the person assessing my ability to nurse the elderly) walks in while I’m staring at a tea bag in confusion like it’s a fucking time turner from another dimension? How am I allowed to be in charge of myself?

While I grabbed some mugs, I quickly sorted through my options. Faking a seizure was on the top of my list, but I wasn’t entirely confident that my acting skills were sufficient enough. I thought about excusing myself to use the bathroom so I could whip out the google machine on my phone, but apparently nurses don’t have time to pee. I COULD alert the Real Nurse that I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing, but I’d actually rather die. So I fumbled around and did some weird half-dunk-half-swirl motion, somehow managed to tangle my teabag string into unsolvable knots, threw the asshole teabags into the bin with disgust, and shamefully presented to these wonderful elderly residents, with all their knowledge and wordly wisdom, what was the most pitiful attempt at a cup of tea that the universe has ever witnessed. These guys have done their time. They’ve worked hard, they’ve built their lives, they’ve raised children, they’ve endured suffering and loss and ageing and frailty, they’ve lost a good portion of their independence, some of them have lost the ability to mobilize, and I can’t even offer them a cup of tea that doesn’t taste like Satan took a shit in it.


Luckily, I’ve come a long way since then, and just last week I received my first ever tea compliment. It only took me 4 years and 387,000 terrifying, soul-sucking tea-making attempts. So if you ever find yourself in a situation where you feel wildly incompetent, don’t worry. You’ll master the art of tea, and then you’ll discover that you don’t technically know how to turn a lawnmower on, and the cycle will repeat. Welcome to Adulthood! Feel free to share your failed-adulting experiences with me so that I don’t have to cry myself to sleep.

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The Adult’s Guide to Adulting

Hey guys! Guess what? I’m an Adult!*. And due to my Superior Adulting Skills, I’ve decided that I’m perfectly qualified to prepare our youth for the Hell that is Being A Grown-Up, in a series of helpful blog posts. I expect that these will be published in academic journals and referenced back on for generations.

*for legal purposes:people keep referring to me as an Adult, but I am very obviously three kids stacked on top of each other under a trench coat.

(Thank you Bojack Horseman)

This exclusive series will feature handy life instructions, devastating truths, and me using my own opinions as facts. After somewhat-successful completion of twenty-two long and arduous revolutions of the Sun, I’m finally speaking out about the struggles of Adulting, and the ways in which you can do a better job at it.


handy tips2

Tip 1: Write a grocery list.
This will ensure that you leave the supermarket with all of the items you require.

Tip 2: Leave grocery list on the kitchen bench at home.
This will happen whether you like it or not, so you may as well pretend like you did it on purpose so that you can feel good about yourself.
(Additional lifehack: “Pretend like you did it on purpose” can be applied to most tricky adult situations. Grin smugly and say “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.” to achieve best results.)

Tip 3: Mentally prepare yourself.
Because walking into Woolworths is basically like walking into a strip club and having tits and ass thrown at you from every direction, except the tits and ass are replaced with marshmallows and pizza pockets and decorative cleaning cloths. This is (almost) never a good thing when you’re on a budget, but you will (always) always think it’s fucking excellent at the time.

Sometimes they dress the food up in fancy packages, and sometimes they do this thing called Strategic Product Placement, so that no matter how hard you try to stick to your shopping list (that you left at home) you’ll be suckered into buying more things. Strategic product placement is just a clever way of saying SNACKS, FUCKING, EVERYWHERE. Better hope you’re not on a diet, because you’re about to be eye-fucked by the cadbury company on every single corner.

Tip 4: Learn how to Deli correctly.
All this means is that when you’ve pulled your ticket number out of the ticket machine, you don’t continue standing in front of the ticket machine. I’ve conducted some research, I’ve done some calculations, I’ve made a quick pie chart, and the findings are conclusive: moving away from the ticket machine allows OTHER people to also use the ticket machine. Access to the ticket machine makes for a smoother and less socially-excruciating shopping experience for introverted assholes, like me.

Tip 5: Stick to your stereotype.
If you’d like the lead-up to any holiday season or celebratory event to be an enjoyable and visually-pleasing experience at the supermarket, it’s best to stick to your stereotype. If you’re a Mum, I strongly suggest having a music taste that fits somewhere in between Mariah Carey and Michael Buble, being obsessed with pastel pinks, and being aroused by baking utensils. If you haven’t made it your life mission to collect as many body lotions and bath bombs as possible, it might be a good time to do so. Unfortunately, my interests include musicians who shout obscenities and the colour black. This means that every-time my son and I walk past the gift tables, I have to try not to vomit as he “ooh”s and “ahh”s over all of the floral things he’d like to make me proudly display in my house. Don’t be me.

Tip 6: Don’t get too emotionally attached.
Because you’ll loyally purchase the same item every fortnight for like, eight fucking years, and then the merciless bastards will suddenly stop stocking said item without as much as a small, polite warning, and you’ll feel like they’ve murdered everything you love.

Tip 7: Don’t be “That Guy”.
Which guy? You know the guy. Actually, usually it’s not a guy; it’s a middle-aged stay at home Mum with three kids, reliving her fantasies of being a shopkeeper by using the self-serve checkouts to scan what I assume is about three million dollars worth of groceries. Lady, I’m genuinely interested in how much crack you had to lace your morning coffee with to think this would be a good idea. Your two trolley loads of shit are invading everybody’s personal space, your children are getting all up in my grill, and you are taking an enormously large amount of time, hence, fucking up the system that allows me to scan my seven items (a number of items which is appropriate in this particular setting) with the least amount of human interaction possible. When grocery shopping, it is important to never be this guy, so that I never have to throw a can of corn at you.

Tip 8: Be nice to your retail staff.
They have to deal with large quantities of human people every single day, and human people suck. Say please, say thank-you. Smile and say “that’s okay” when they apologize for the wait. The only exception to this rule is when they place your apples in the same bag as your bleach, even though you METICULOUSLY ORGANIZED THE GROCERIES ON THE CONVEYOR BELT so that they would be bagged correctly. If this happens, it’s perfectly okay to shoot imaginary poison daggers into their soul, so that maybe they’ll bag them PROPERLY NEXT TIME.


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Double Standards: Rant #1

I’ve been spending way too much time on social media lately, because I have an assignment due, and if there’s one thing I’m getting right in life, it’s definitely my priorities. Spending a lot of time on the interwebsz literally does nothing except remind me how much I dislike most people. This is a good 80% of the reason why I haven’t blogged lately. Any and all blogging ideas have been passionate rants about things that annoy me, and I don’t want to come across as a stuck-up ranty asshole. The other 18% and 2% respectively: I have the attention span of a flea, I don’t want to offend literally every person on the planet. BUT. I feel like this rant in particular is definitely justified. I was scrolling through posts on a forum that I will not name (because it’s secretszs and if I get kicked out, a good portion of my daily amusement will be gone), when I came across a post like this: “I tried to wake my partner up with a blow job last night and he ROLLED OVER. Wtf? I can’t believe him! I’m so mad!” Alright, so your feelings are hurt because you were trying to be sexy and spontaneous and every-guys-dream-girl, I guess I can understand this. But then the REPLIES. “My partner did the same thing, so I slapped him. Asshole.” “I would’ve slapped him too!” “Omg. Jerk!! What guy TURNS DOWN A BJ?” Etc. etc. Right. Okay. Let’s do a little role reversal. You’re a woman. You’re asleep. You’re enjoying your sleep, because Sleep. Something wakes you up. It’s your partner, slowly pulling down your pants and initiating some spontaneous sleepy-time oralz. That’s nice, because oralz is nice, but sleep tho. You’re tired. In your dazed state, you roll over and continue sleeping.  Your partner, who initiated the sleepy-time oralz, groans in pure disgust at your sleepy refusal, and immediately slaps you in the face. Not nice, right? I imagine if this scenario played out and the male partner told his internet friends/acquaintances/strangers about it, the responses wouldn’t be, “dude. Your Mrs is such a jerk. I would’ve slapped her too.” It’d be more like, “dude. You’re a sick piece of shit.”


Out of about 27 responses, there were probably TWO ladies that piped up and said “Wait.. What? That’s not okay. Men are allowed to turn down sexual activities also.” But generally, the consensus was that a guy who turns down a good morning blowjob is an ungrateful asshole and deserves to be slapped. Huh? Since when is that a fucking thing? We shouldn’t be slapping men, like, ever. Not for refusing sex, not for anything. We (very rightfully) insist that men do not hit women, and I don’t think it’s too far-fetched for men to insist the same from us. Other (slightly) less extreme examples of annoying double standards: “My boyfriend chose to play video games last night over me giving him a blowjob. What the fuck?!” I love oral sex but y’know what, sometimes I just don’t feel like it. Sometimes I have better shit to do. Sometimes things on the list titled Better Shit To Do are important things; other times the things include playing spider solitaire or using all my mobile data to laugh at cats.


My point being, men are not exempt from sometimes Not Feeling Like It because Cats (or video games, whatever). “I don’t ever go down on my boyfriend, it’s gross and tastes disgusting” If I had a partner (lol) and he wrote “I don’t ever go down on my girlfriend because it’s gross and tastes disgusting” on facebook I would literally cry all of the crying and then obsess over my vagina, purchase stocks in femfresh and probably try to season it with salt and pepper. Not everyone enjoys putting genitals in their mouth, whatever. But if you’re seriously going to be discussing your partners penis on facebook, you better be bragging about it tasting like a fucking rainbow flavoured paddle pop. Oh, I’d also probably trade him in for a new one or something, because Public Criticizing of Genitals is #327 on my list of Shit That Does Not Fly With Me. How is that not on everybody else’s list? I think it’s really, really easy to be totally unaware of how much of an asshole you are being when everyone is patting you on the back, nodding and agreeing with you. Back patting and nodding doesn’t mean that what you are saying is okay. It generally just means that you are in the company of fellow assholes. It’s also really easy to forget what certain situations would feel like if the tables were turned – if YOU were the receiver of the shit you are dishing out. Self reflection is a really handy exercise if you have even the slightest urge to be a reasonably decent person/partner. HINT HINT. Also, I think a good portion of women are under the impression that men are a totally foreign species who are absent of feelings. I’m pretty sure they are just People hey. We should probably treat them nice and stuff. End rant.

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Setting Myself On Fire > University

I made the executive decision to go to uni when I was seventeen. Seventeen year old self probably has her shit sorted better than twenty-two year old self, because if I knew then what I know now, I probably would’ve set myself on fire instead. Not my entire body – just a leg or something – and then I could roast marshmallows, drink tequila and be like “No uni deadlines though” while I slowly die. Which would be a more enjoyable time than what I am having right now.

Enrolling into university was a really momentous, feel-good moment. I received my acceptance letter, pinned it on the fridge and had a smug grin of satisfaction every time I walked past it. Sneaking to the fridge at 11 pm for Tim Tams used to be a guilt-ridden experience; not anymore! I’d eat my Tim Tam and stare at the fridge with pride. I’m Adulting! I’m doing something clever and cool and exciting with my life!

Even purchasing $600 worth of textbooks wasn’t enough to make me cringe. I touched their covers, inhaled the scent of the paper and fantasized about staying up until 2 AM reading them. I wish I was joking even a little bit.


The semester started, the workload slowly increased every week, but this was fine – I had everything totally under control. I had a study schedule (yeah, you heard that right). I attended a clinical placement orientation session, where our lecturer told us “PULL OUT NOW. ESPECIALLY IF YOU HAVE KIDS. JUST FUCK OFF AND BAKE SHIT”. My memory of that orientation session is pretty hazy, so the words used probably differed slightly/immensely, but if the look in her eyes could be translated into English language, that would have been pretty much exactly the point she was trying to portray.

That first semester was surprisingly fun. We were learning Nursey things, like how to take blood pressures and urine samples. I also had a course which contained about thirteen years worth of learning about physics, chemistry, microbiology and immunology, crammed into thirteen weeks. I was acing all my online quizzes with minimal help from Google, and I felt the warm, fuzzy, glowing feeling of knowing things that are clever. 

University even became a helpful tool when flirting with boys. Exam time came rolling in, and with them came my all-time favourite text message – “I’d really love to come hang out but I’m way too busy studying for exams :(” subtly followed by “My back is so sore. Stress tension, I guess”. Add those texts to the fact that every mans inner teenage self automatically associates the word “nurse” with “naughty”, and what do you have? A cute boy on your doorstep with Oreos and Massage Oil, offering to help you write flash cards and make out.

…Hang on Sera, this all sounds pretty great. What has happened between Massage Oil and Now to make you want to set your own flesh on fire? At what point did you rip the acceptance letter off the fridge so that you could enjoy your Tim Tams in peace? What series of unfortunate events could’ve taken place for you to seriously consider dropping uni and selling your vagina on eBay?


How do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways..


University, especially nursing at university, is high school for middle aged women.
Let that sink in.
I once witnessed a 43 year old woman say to her 35 year old friend “Have you seen her new boyfriend? He isn’t even that good-looking. She posted pictures on facebook and he’s like, ugly, I don’t even understand.”
On another occasion, a woman asked me what I was eating for lunch. When I responded with “a roast vegetable wrap”, she immediately transformed into Blair fucking Waldorf from Gossip Girl.

Over-enthusiastic, snorted-Valium-for-breakfast, stethoscope-lodged-in-my-asshole students. The ones that bring a suitcase to class filled with textbooks that you know damn well aren’t on the text list. The ones that, three days into the semester, will casually say “Omg I’m so stuck on question fifteen part d point eight of assignment seven. You know the assignment I’m talking about, right? The one that isn’t due for eleven years? Oh, you… haven’t started? Oh wa-ow. I’d be like, so nervous if I were you. GOOD LUCK!” *skips away into meadow of daisies whilst flipping the bird*
Yeah no, I haven’t started the assignment, I’m too busy writing an essay on how much I fucking hate you. No we can’t study at my house, because I stuck your photo on my wall so that I can throw pineapples at your face.

Uni lecturers that spent thirty years studying anatomy and physiology, and thirty seconds learning English before they got a job teaching people about anatomy and physiology.
Do you feel like pleasure and joy have left your life? Do you feel like the future is hopeless? Are you sad, blue and unhappy? It’s probably because you’re being taught about endothelial cells in Korean.

Weekly readings. You know, the ones that make you feel like your soul is being sucked through your eyeballs, and you’re told “If you don’t read this, you absolutely will not pass the course and your mother will contract leprosy?”

Sorry Ma.

Talking to inanimate objects. What’s more fun than talking to people when you have social anxiety? Being forced to have people observe you while you communicate with a lump of plastic.
We have mannequins/dummies in lab classes that are our patients, and we’re firmly instructed to communicate with them as if they were real people. Honestly, there’s no better way to prove how nursey and compassionate you are than by patting a fake person on the back and offering comforting words of reassurance while you stick a nasogastric tube inside their nosehole – “Stop struggling John! I will cut you!”
It’s also heaps of fun when your teacher jumps out of fucking nowhere, glares at you disapprovingly and says “You forgot to ask Miss Waters her pain score!” I did ask her, but I’m pretty sure she’s not a real person hey. I waited six years for a response, gave up, fucked off and had a latte.

Exam questions that start with – “Which answer is MOST correct?”. All of my fucking Nope. I will literally take every Nope I have ever Nope’d, wrap them up in Paper Nope, insert them into a snow machine and create a fucking Nope Blizzard. I will make it rain/snow on these Hoe’s.

Referencing. If I hadn’t just carelessly given all my Nope’s away, I’d insert them here. You know that feeling you get when you realise you didn’t rinse your Weet-Bix bowl? The Weet-Bix residue has cemented itself to the bowl and you have to spend the next thirty minutes/months scraping that fuckery off.
Referencing feels like someone painted your entire fucking house with Weet-Bix while you were on holiday.

The moment when you’re on a clinical placement and realise you’ve learnt (almost) nothing of value from a textbook. Sure, I can tell you all about synapse junctions and homeostasis, but a patient just slipped their hand inside the sleeve of my shirt and is tickling my armpit. The dementia patient in Room 305 keeps sneaking into room 307, stealing their toothbrush and telling them to get the fuck out of her house. Don’t worry though – I spent a really long time memorising the periodic table. I’ve got this covered.

If you’re really keen on having a good time, do all of those things whilst simultaneously being a Parent. Your child will definitely cooperate. “Oh, you’ve just returned home from night shift and have an exam in three hours? Awesome, because I’m going to throw up on you.” “Wait.. You said play quietly while you finish your assignment? Dude. My bad. I thought you said to paint the fridge with nail polish and give the cat a bath in the fish-tank.” 

You won’t be up until 2 AM reading textbooks and smelling paper. You will be up until 2 AM crying, breathing frantically into a brown paper bag and injecting red bull directly into your veins.
And if you’re anything like me, you’ll be dissecting a brain in lab class in the middle of Summer, and the heat will make the brain get all melty, and you’ll have brain melt on your gloves and then you’ll accidentally place your brain-melty-glove-hand on your textbook.. and it’ll never smell the same again.

Melty brain. You’re welcome.

Stay tuned for part two of me being a ranty asshole.

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Parenting: I Have No Idea What I’m Doing.

Once upon a time, I was a person who was not a parent. WEIRD. My memories of this time are pretty foggy – probably because I’ve burnt too many brain calories resisting the urge to hide in a cupboard for the last six years.

Due to the fact that I became a parent before I was even old enough to hold a driver’s lisence, I had two parenting priorities. 1 – Keep the child alive, and 2 – Make it appear to the rest of the world that I know what I’m doing. Thankfully, I’ve been successful at fulfilling at least half of the parenting priorities to date. If someone had kindly handed me the Parenting Rulebook so that I actually WOULD know what I’m doing, I would’ve graciously accepted. Alas, nobody did, and I had to write the damn book myself.

This seemed like a pretty easy feat in the beginning. I was handed the little tiny person that I’d grown…

…and I was responsible for feeding him, watering him and giving him sunshine. Something along those lines.

And then I blinked. And this happened.

Rule number one – don’t let them get wet, don’t feed them after midnight.

Not only did I have to feed and water and sunshine the tiny person, I had to answer questions like “Where do babies come from?” and “Is the tooth fairy even real?” and “Can we have poop for dinner?”

Remember when you were a child and your Mother was pretty much Google? You could ask her the distance to Mars in centimetres and you totally trusted she’d be equipped to answer it? I am now someone’s personal google machine, and I’m totally unequipped to answer those questions. I still have too many of my own to be answered.. Like why does it take a six year old fifteen minutes to put socks on? How do I keep a straight face and not fall on the floor in a fit of laughter when my child is trying to be Grown Up and Cool by “Ughhh”ing and Eye Roll-ing me in front of his friends for the first time? How is he still awake after twelve hours of straight PLAYING and BEING A MANIAC?

My all-time favourite Parenting Question is “Wait… Why is he being so quiet?”

Oh. That’s why.

I have no idea what I’m doing. If Parenting were a poker game, I’d be the guy bluffing big-time on a pair of two’s. I don’t know how long time-outs are supposed to be. I don’t know how to bake banana bread. I don’t even know what’s going to happen when I say “You have until I count to three!”, and then I actually do count to three and he’s still sticky-taping the dog to his skateboard.

Here are some things I do know. His laugh is sweeter than a symphony. He likes to describe his favourite foods as “terribly delicious”. He can’t wait to grow a beard. His comedic talent is out of this world ridiculous.

And he thinks I’m okay.

That’s a good enough reason to keep bluffing until I figure this thing out.

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People are like yoghurt.

In case you haven’t noticed, being a woman is hard. It’s pretty much impossible to log onto any form of social media and not be immediately bombarded with photos of beautiful women.  All of them with flawless skin, snow-white teeth, perfectly sculpted asses and legs for days. These women are celebrities, they’re our friends, they’re our nemesis from the third grade, they’re our sisters-boyfriends-cousins-husbands-nieces-best friend that we follow on Instagram and politely stalk from a distance. They are generally sporting three different editing apps, two filters and took 37 selfies before they got the perfect shot – but we ignore that, and we idolize the polished versions of these women nonetheless.

We all present the polished versions of ourselves. Regardless of whether we think we are polished enough, majority of us are guilty of it, and in turn, all of us are the women we are cursing under our breaths. We’re all staring at our phones, scrolling through our feeds and dreaming of all the things our genetics have not granted us with. Did any of us ever stop to think that some of our own features are fascinating to other women, too? Even without the filter?

That stupid damn dress (you know which one I’m talking about) was the perfect example of how different our perceptions are. I don’t know about you, but I know that I saw white and gold, and I refuse to dispute it. The same way I refuse to dispute the negative convictions I have about my hair, my smile, and the way I always blush.

I really despise lumpy yoghurt. Lumps in yoghurt should not exist, and I refuse to accept any varying beliefs on the matter, just like I refuse to accept any varying beliefs about my general appearance and size. I perceive lumps in yoghurt as tiny little fruit Satan’s, sent to earth to fuck my day up – but SOMEONE is buying that shit at Woolworths. There are people out there who genuinely enjoy the lumps.

The sound of Nicki Minaj’s voice makes me want to insert rusty screwdrivers into my eardrums. On the flip-side, there are people out there who literally hand over dollars of money to obtain a CD featuring an entire hour’s worth of her voice. (Shit people.) (This is not a valid point.) (Ignore this.)

My best friend could spend an entire hour explicitly describing all of her faults, and I would literally stare at her in confusion and wonder how severe her brain damage must be, because I am absolutely certain that the sun shines out of her asshole and every other orifice of her body. I don’t see what she sees; I’m too busy being blinded by her fucking beauty.

I’m trying to make a point here. That maybe, just maybe, the way we perceive ourselves is totally different to the way a portion of the population perceives us? I did some calculations and a quick pie chart; my findings show that it’s at least slightly possible.

So the next time you look in the mirror, or you obsess over another woman’s cheekbones on Instagram, or put yourself on another fad diet for the sole purpose of pleasing other people’s eyeballs.. Spare a thought to the yoghurt lumps. You might not enjoy them, but that doesn’t mean that nobody else thinks they’re delicious.

If all else fails, Valencia. And stop listening to Nicki Minaj, for fuck’s sake.

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Lyrics, though. (Warning: Contains Sudden Outburts of Rage)

This is an old blog post I wrote in 2013-ish. Only problem was, I didn’t have a blog to post it to.

We all enjoy music, whether it be to mourn the loss of a lover, to celebrate the loss of a lover, to deal with the angst of the loss of a lover.. Oh, and probably also for reasons not concerning lovers, I definitely did not just get my heart broken.

But really I did.

Whenever I go through some kind of heart hurt, I’m annoyingly critical of things that I, in my non heart hurt-ing state, would accept without judgement. Like today for example, I was drinking a chocolate milk (Do you know what’s better than chocolate milk? Nothing.), and when I had finished my chocolate flavoured cow milk, I was all like, “Fuck you milk, who are you to dictate to me when your carton should be empty? You are just a milk, who fucking assigned you that power?”, where normally I would just finish my milk and carry on with my day.

So, I have also become annoyingly critical of the lyrics that I would normally just bop around to. I mean, sometimes I’ll sing a song and while I’m singing it, I’m kind of dancing along thinking “I have no clue what the fuck is meaaaant by this, you had your friends collect your records and then changed your number”.. But today, I wanted to hunt down the fucking author of these songs and have them assessed for mental illnesses.

And then make out with them.

Here is a list of songs, that either make no sense, logically or metaphorically, or are just plain wrong.

  • “She Will Be Loved” – Maroon 5
    This song was cute and made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. And then Adam Levine was all like “I don’t mind spending every day, out on your corner in the pouring rain”.. And I was all like, “Really Adam? Every day?” If those words ever come out of my mouth when I’m trying to describe how much I love a person, I’d feel the need to get a restraining order against my SELF. Why are you standing out in the rain for a girl who clearly won’t let you inside for some shelter and warmth? Do you have an umbrella? Where do you live that it is raining every day? And then he goes on to say, “Look for the girl with the broken smile, ask her if she wants to stay a while”. Firstly, why is her smile broken, did she have a stroke that made the left side of her face go floppy, hence causing her smile to look broken? And secondly, if some guy who I wasn’t letting inside my house (because he was creepy as fuck standing on my corner every day in the pouring rain) then took it a step further and asked if I would like to join him for a while, on my corner, in the pouring rain, and then told me my smile looked broken.. I’d probably just say no. You don’t get away with saying crazy things just because you’re a sex god. I think.
  • “Call Me Maybe” – Carly Rae Jepson
    I don’t even need an explanation for why this song makes no sense, it’s just that fucking terrible. ‘Hey I just met you, and this is crazy, but here’s my number, so call me maybe’. Carly, I don’t know what kind of sheltered upbringing you had, but giving out your phone number isn’t really all that crazy. Taking off all of your clothes and rubbing asparagus all over your body might be a little crazy; giving a hot guy your number is not. ‘Before you came into my life, I missed you so bad’. You. Did. Fucking. Not. You may have missed the presence and company of a human being, but you did not miss that particular human being before you met them. It’s not possible. Off to the nut house for you, mate.
  • “Lego House” – Ed Sheeren
    This one really pissed me off, so bare with me.
       “I’m gonna pick up the pieces / And build a lego house / If things go wrong we can knock it down”. Well, be my guest Ed, but you’ve clearly never been around a 5 year old with a lego obsession, otherwise you’d know that picking up lego that has been knocked down is fucking time consuming, and if you accidently step on a piece you’re pretty much fucked because a leg amputation would be less painful. But whatever, knock that shit down. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Fuck lego.
        “I’m out of touch, I’m out of love / I’ll pick you up when you’re getting down / And out of all these things I’ve done / I think I love you better now”. I’m just gonna let you re-read that a few times. Really read it. Take a deep breath, and then repeat after me – What. The Fuck. If you are out of love, how could you possibly decide that you are loving someone better? Change the words to “I think I love you shitter now” and you’ll probably be onto something.
    “I’m out of sight, I’m out of mind / I’ll do it all for you in time.” In TIME bitch, I’ll do it all for you on my own damn time frame but right now I’m busy picking up the fucking lego I carelessly knocked down and am now REGRETTING.
    “I’m gonna paint you by numbers and colour you in / If things go right we can frame it and put you on a wall”. Like that’s not the biggest insult you’ve ever heard. He is pretty much kind of exactly saying that he will paint you the way he likes, and if you don’t complain about it he might stick you on a wall and be all like “See that shit? I painted that shit. Painted it the colours I wanted and I painted it in my own damn time frame”, and you’re just sitting there having your fucking personality moulded into this dudes masterpiece. If things don’t go right, he will probably just scribble on your face and send you off on your merry fucking way.

I think I’m done now.

Sera, X

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How To Be Nope’d On Tinder (A beginners guide)

Ahh, Tinder.  Never has online dating been so easy. Swipe, match, flirty conversation, awkward meeting, anal sex.


In all my years of Tinder-ing (I signed up two weeks ago, whatever), a pattern has definitely emerged in terms of swiping left (aka, The Nope). Tinder is totally based on first impressions.. The first impression you make is the photo/s you’ve carefully selected to upload. Pay attention to the words in bold, they’re important. You can also add a quick introduction, which I completely recommend, unless you actually are just looking for anal sex, in which your introduction is totally irrelevant. “Has anus” would probably suffice.

Assuming you are on Tinder to have conversations, meet people, hook up, etc.. The photo/s you carefully selected and the introduction you carefully typed are literally the only determining factors on which way you will be swiped. 

So without further ado, here is a carefully compiled list of ways to be Nope’d on Tinder.

  1. Remember that photo you carefully selected to upload as your first impression? Make sure it is absolutely not your face. A picture of your dog is okay, a picture of a mountain is even better. If you want to make absolutely certain you will receive The Nope, make this photo a picture quote.
  2. Speaking of carefully selected photos – leave them guessing! Upload five photos of yourself with a large group of your most attractive friends. When she furiously scrolls through said photos until she reaches the sixth (the SOLO photo), she will be horribly disappointed and immediately swipe left. Even if you are mediocre-looking. 
  3. Wear sunglasses in all of your photos. We will assume you’re hiding something really fucking terrible underneath them.
  4. Stand next to a dead animal. Preferably one you have slaughtered. Wear your SMUGGEST GRIN. Remember, this photo is your first impression – make sure it’s really murder-y.
  5. Mirror selfies.
  6. Mirror selfies with shirt lifted up.
  7. Mirror selfies with shirt lifted up and one arm pointing to abs.
  9. List “camping, fishing, 4×4” as your only interests. Like, that’s literally all you enjoy and it is so totally unique and interesting and different that 80% of the Male Tinder Population listed it as their only interests too. 
  10. Everyone loves a mopey guy. The first sentence of your introduction should be “What’s the point in writing this, you’ll swipe left anyway”. You could look like Channing fucking Tatum and I promise you, I will nope you anyway. Rest assured, Sympathy Right Swipes are NOT a thing.
  11. Any combination of “YOLO”, “Here for a good time, not a long time”, and/or “Looking for the one”.
  12. Talk about your children. Heaps. Upload seven photos of them. Tell Tinder how much they mean to you, in the most generic and Parenty way possible. Get all mushy.
  13. Ignore my previous point, because this is also a good way to attract pedophiles, you EEEDIOTS.
  14. If you do not have children, casually suggest that you’d be totally willing to be a step parent, because you just love children, in a totally Non-Michael-Jackson way.
  15. “Swipe right, I don’t bite.. Unless you’re into that *wink*”. Surprising, right? I know you thought it was witty, clever and a little bit cheeky. I know you thought you were the first person to think of it. You absolutely were not. There were about thirty-seven thousand people before you, and there will be just as many after you. All of The Nope.

If you’re really determined to make your first impression terrible, you could try combining as many of the above as possible. It’s not hard, promise. All of the men within a 70km radius of me have pretty much nailed it.

Sera, X

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Sex Nerd Sandra

Endlessly Curious. Always sex-positive.

Emily Writes

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Confessions of a Reluctant Tinderella

misadventures in online dating

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Tea, Dinosaurs and Feminism.

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ttc, pregnancy and parenting from my prospective: the brutal truth

Jeyna Grace ©

Imagination, the perfect form of escapism.

Musings of an eighteen year old nothing

Its better to look at the sky than live in it.