Thursday, August 18, 2011

The Controversial Cigarette

I had my first real puff of a cigarette when I was about 13 with Sarah Taylor, down the back of a primary school before a rehearsal for a play we were in. When I say ‘first real puff’, I’m omitting the two weeks of hustling poor little Hayley O’Conner at school in the year below us for the cigarettes she used to steal from her Mum to sell to the older girls. Because it wasn’t until I had my first real puff that I realised I had been bum puffing those hustled ciggys for the whole two weeks behind the bush in intermediate with my little shit crew. We got caught and put on level two detention for two weeks, which I now think of as hilarious because I wasn’t even smoking was I? I was inhaling and pushing the smoke out before it even hit the back of my throat. All those after school DT’s durasealing library books just for the rush of being a badass, not even smoking. I knew it was a ‘real’ puff with Sarah Taylor because I had to suppress the cough that was tearing through my chest, and I nearly passed out walking back to rehearsal – the head rush got me good.

I haven’t always been a smoker. After the stint in form 2, I ‘quit’ (if you could even call it that). Throughout the remaining school years, I’d scab a few drags from some of the girls if I could, after school by Britomart (one smoke between 6), but besides that, I was never one of the hardcore smokers who got their older siblings to buy them a pack of B&H. And I definitely don’t think I was addicted to smoking throughout school. It wasn’t until I went flatting when I was 18 that I picked up the dirty habit to a full-time extent and became addicted. Maybe it was the fact that I could even buy cigarettes at all that made me take it up. Maybe it was the fact that Teu and I had some of the best chats on the back deck, tea and ciggy in hand. Maybe it was a sweet pick up line – for mates, not guys. It seems to bring people together I think. Or maybe it was because I was bored. Either way, I was spending $10.80 a week on Dunhill blues to whip out when I had a spare moment or two. I stopped for a while, partly because I became too poor to buy my own pack, and partly because I moved into a place with a non-smoker and didn’t have a buddy to jam with. But I never strayed completely from the lazy ciggy here and there. I only took it back up over the past year.

My parents hate it. I still don’t have the balls to smoke in front of them and I’m nearly twenty-two for goodness’ sake! They know I do, but I think they’d prefer to pretend I don’t. My Mum often asks me casually if I’ve started smoking again, and I tell her I only have one or two if I’m going out. Funny that she accepts that answer when I was going out Wednesday through Saturday without fail in Auckland, and she was the one washing my smoke drenched clothes. My Dad is absolutely sickened by it. His parents were both smokers and died from lung failure. I think the 21st speech he gave me was aimed at anti-smoking. I think. Anyone who was there is probably just as unclear as me, because he was pissed off his nut and thought it would be a good idea to give the speech in gibberish for all the gibberish folk in the house.

One of my best friends hates it. She thinks it’s a sickly, gay past time and doesn’t know why I do it. I’ve never seen her even touch a cigarette and we lived together for nearly four years. She never aggressively encouraged me to give up. She merely took the piss out of me when I was sitting out in the cold and rain, breathing in all that toxic air while she sat inside enjoying Big Bang Theory. We’d joke about the possibility of me catching a cold on top of my emphysema. Most of my other friends are smokers, or at least socially smoke, so I hardly hear anything about giving up from them, unless we’re hungover – “Bro, smoked so much last night and bought another pack while we were out. Worst headache ever and now broke. We should probably give up.”

My boyfriend* hates it. We broke up once and when we got back together, he asked me to quit. I said yes. I lasted less than a day. I’m going to say I lied.

Smoking is such a controversial habit, and I genuinely don’t know why. Sure, it’s kind of not good for the environment, but so is driving your Nissan Pulsar to uni everyday. Sure, it’s unhealthy, but so is all the coke you drink. Sure, it’s ‘unattractive’, but I’m not trying to impress you. If you’re worried about the second hand smoke, piss off and leave me to die alone in peace, I’m not asking you to inhale my sloppy seconds with me. There are so many more reasons why smoking is controversial, and I can see why it is, but please don’t judge me because I like a late night cigarette with my tea.

It’s not our future.






*Boyfriend: my significant other who I’m not really sure knows whether I still call him my boyfriend. Lol.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Wu-Tang Killahhh & Douchebaggyish Behaviour

Homegirl Jessii came over to spend a weekend with me and Wu-Tang. So good to see my soul sistah, and even better with Wu-Tang on the cards - our number one fave.

Of course, with me involved, there were some douchebaggyish calls that were made. A couple that I'm pretty embarassed about. Who would have thought I could have fucked up so much in one weekend?

Douchebaggyish Call Uno Numero:
I didn't eat anything substantial all day Friday - the day Jessii arrived. What was I thinking? To be fair, I was literally sick with excitment all day. I drank about 3L of tea to accompany the one and a half packs of Marlboroughs I smoked (which by the way, are considered fancy here - upper class PGut!). Nana Napped after work because I was wriggling with impatience by then. And only managed to squeeze in a McChicken and fries on the way to the hotel from the airport because they happened to be on offer. Uhhh yeah, big boo boo PGut - by vodka number 2 I'm going to say I was pissed. Only because I'm extremely groggy on what happened after vodka number 2. Cheers Duty Free and J-Rei for fucking me up so early in the adventure.

Douchebaggyish Call Dos:
Fast forward five hours and I have some recollection of using my Mastercard to top up at 4am over the phone. It took me half an hour. Thirty minutes to use the simple phone top up system using Mastercard. THIRTY MINUTES. Lying in bed. No movement or commotion... Just chilling there in bed, gasbagging with Jessii, trying to top up my phone. I'd like to see some transactional history of how many times I entered my card number etc. The amount of time it took me to do this is only part of the douchebaggyish behaviour. The real douchebaggyish call was doing it at all. Jessii and I then proceeded to go through both of our contacts lists and call half of the Auckland population, I'm guessing, at 6.30am (NZT). Sorry to the victims that we woke up so early, but we clearly thought you ought to know we had been reunited, were drunk, and missed you. I woke up Saturday morning with $4.76 credit left. I had $150.00 when I finally managed to top up at 4.30am. Douchebag.

Douchebaggyish Call Tres:
Subway. Someone told me that Subway here is not a good idea. I was suprisingly up and about doing shit Saturday morning by 10am - strolling down the road to buy toothpaste and coffee and cigarettes and shit. Clearly still drunk maybs? Anyway, despite the warnings of a friend who I had spoken to minutes prior to walking past the local Subway, I thought I'd give it a chance. I shouldn't have. Subway is supposed to be like McDonald's right? Universal. It's supposed to be the same everywhere. Boy was I disappointed. Melbourne Subway, you suck mate. There was a lovely bloke behind the counter who greeted me just the way a still drunk PGut likes to be greeted at Subway - "Hello Ma'am, I'm Ken, I'll be your sandwich maker today" - how bloody lovely I thought! Melb - 1, Akl - Nil. All downhill from here. Bread - shit. Chicken - shit. Salads - suuuper shit. Like I said to Jessii though (when I got home and packed a sook about how horrible it was), it wasn't like I just happened to get a bad sandwich that day. Through the counter window, I could see that all of the salads looked shit. The cucumber and pickles were dry, the lettuce was struggling, the tomatoes were the gross powdery kind - it wasn't like Ken made a bad choice. Subway here just obviously isn't fresh. Hungover giggles meant Subway in Melbourne is now called Bumway - the only upside to this douchebaggyish call.

Douchebaggyish Call Cuatro:
Yes, it still gets worse. Much worse. Finally time to get up and at 'em and get crankin' for Wu-Tang Killahhh! Kicked the hangover and sorted ourselves out, excitement levels through the roof, get down in da Gravel Pit was all I wanted to do. Then I got an inkling to ask to see J-Rei's ticket. Wuh-oh. You guessed it homeslice, I bought the wrong fucking ticket. Who buys an upper-circle seated ticket to Wu-Tang? Duh, I do! I would just LOVE to chill up in the top circle, sitting down, grooving to a bit of Shimmy Shimmy Yo! Don't ask me how I did it, but I did, and there wasn't really anything I could do about it. Besides cry. Thank God, Allah and the Notorious B.I.G, there was a douchebag at the pre-drinks we went to who was just as douchebaggyish as me and bought the same damn ticket. Got a few drinks in me and I was good to jam with my new mate Rob in the seated upper circle (totes nickname basis). Sidenote: BEST. PRE-DRINKS. EVER. Too many lols, too little time. Just know that by the time we got on the road to Wu, I did not give a fuck, was in the highest spirits and ready to rage, despite my stupidity.

Douchebaggyish Call Cinco:
Two words. Mushy caps. One more word. Unknowingly. Old PGut decided she'd play the bigtime with the big boys and downed a mushy cap did she? Yes she did... And only found out that she did so after four hours of tripping balls,clueless as to why she was. Speaking giberish and talking a whole lot of shit, PGut has learnt her lesson - just because everyone else is doing it, doesn't mean you have to babe. I genuinely did not know there were mushy caps anywhere, until the bully mother fucker who gave it to me mentioned it at 5am. Cheeeeeers to you and ya family Aston.

Douchebaggyish Call Seis:
Passing out in a hotel room that isn't yours, with a comedian in the mix of people there, is not advised. I woke up with chairs stacked on top me, caging me in. I don't think I was in the chair cage for long, but I'm going to say it was payback for talking non-stop jibber jabber for three hours while Mr. Sorrell was trying to sleep. Blaming the mushy caps.

Douchebaggyish Call Siete:
An hour and a half of public transport hungover and coming down with a few hours sleep is not ideal and is definitely classed as douchebaggyish behaviour. Enough said.


So! My first real rager in Melbourne and I'm no where near as cool as I thought I'd feel. Had the best time with J-Rei and the others I raged with over the weekend. And Wu-Tang was pretty fucking cool, now that I've had decent flashbacks of Rob and I going loco over a few songs. I seemed to think they weren't AH-MAY-ZING, right after the concert... But the seated upper circle will do that to ya I guess! Douchebaggyish behaviour!



This is dedication right here.
I'm gonna say the token black guy, back right corner, told them 'Wu Tang' translates to 'The Best' in his language. Well played son.


Thursday, August 11, 2011

Fiji Baby


The crew has decided on a Fiji New Years. We've confirmed our accomodation and are booking our flights in the next few weeks. Cannot even explain how excited I am for it!!!!! It's basically our legit little crew, the realists - about 16 of us. A few of us were a little concerned that it will be the first New Years we'll be having without raging rails and badass benders - someone (no names mentioned) considered bum smuggling (fits of laughter), but come on girl, we can do this - I'm actually looking forward to spending some quality time (in full states of mind) with my friends that I miss so super bad. Will be a good chance to get plain old fucking drunk too. Hurrah for pool bars because we all know I'm a salt water pussy.



Goodshirt - Fiji Baby

Yep I'll just pretend it's Fiji baby


No pretending here Goodshirt! Fucking Bula!