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Blog 1: The wrong side of twenty: Flirt Culture.

I was just reminiscing about the film, The House Bunny, the other day. Have you seen it? Do you remember the scene where Shelley is trying to teach the other girls how to flirt? “Your biceps are huge, kiss me.” and then he would kiss me.”

Biceps Laughs aside, if only it were that simple.

Let’s talk about flirt culture. What is it? Who knows how to successfully take part?  Who knows what to say, what to do, is anyone naturally that smooth? or is it something that you’re born with? Hell, maybe its Maybeline.

These are the questions I want answered... along with why,The house Bunny didn't take more at the box office. Seriously guys, that movie is hilarious.

As I may or may not have mentioned, I myself find it 100x more difficult to navigate my way around the dating scene, as a result of having a same sex attraction to men. Seriously, being gay is like a piece of paper. Fold it in half and one half is the gay community, fold that half in half and the new half is now the gay community in your city. Fold that half in half and that represents guys around your age with similar interests and hobbies, fold that half in half and that represents the guys around your age with similar interests and hobbies that you actually like, and that could potentially like you back. Do you catch my drift?

It’s a jungle out there, or a really really small piece of paper.

Sorry. Im introducing too many examples and common phrases. Point is, its no walk in the park...I'm doing it again.

So what can be done? Well for years I haven't done anything. Ive just gone through life wondering whether or not the guy I served at work that gave me the serious side eye was actually interested, or was just really happy with my customer service the $15 leather protecter he just bought for his shoes.

Surely though, there must be foreseeable signs.

So at this current moment in time I’m the only one that is allowed to do the banking at my work. This is not because I’m the manager, but actually because of this tall dark and handsome bank assistant that greets me every time I walk in to make a deposit.

Now, at first I thought he was just doing his job, smiling politely and handing me my ticket, but one day I came in and he already had my ticket ready, and with a sizable smile, casually mentioned, “I’ve memorised you.”

Memorised me? I didn't realise I was memorisable. Is that a good thing or is that more of a “oh this guy, its that time of day again that this stupid little dweep does his banking.”

Its really hard to tell, guys.

Me, being ever so gracious and charming, offered but a casual smile and took the ticket with a “so you have. Thank you” and took a seat. I wish I could have thought of something witty to say but honestly coffee only gets me so far in one day, and it was already around 2pm.

But wait theres more. Another time I went in, and he told me to come back because the cue was really long. How sweet, right? Maybe he just hoped I’d take the hint and use a different bank...

On my return, I took a seat and noticed he was dealing with these difficult foreign customers who were making a grandeo fuss about bank account security, like its such a drag to have to keep your money, your money. I mean, I would totally get the inconvenience, if I actually had any of my own, but I digress. Mr TDH, (I've abbreviated tall dark and handsome because I don't want to have to keep typing it, I hope that’s okay with you) was assisting them and he looked over on occasion, shooting me a ‘these custy’s are really making me feel uncomfortable’ kind of look, which was quite adorable if I’m being honest. I shot him a knowing smirk, and then it happened. He asked me what my number was. No, not my actual digits, silly.

Unfortunately, he was talking about my ticket number. I told him with that same smile, before he turned back to dealing with his irksome customers.

I didn't know what to make of this. On the one hand I was like, that was random, why would he need to know that? He’s not at the tellers and he is with customers, but then I was like,  maybe it was an attempt to make conversation with me. Mr TDH didn't ask the woman that walked in after me what her number was, no sir!

That’s the thing though, was it flirting, or was it just filling in a moment while his customers lulled something over amongst themselves? God knows. I could sit here all night mulling it over and still be totally unsure. Men need manuals.

I haven't encountered Mr TDH again since, mostly on account of the recent easter break, and im guessing different working schedules, but I’m really not sure what my next move should be, if anything. This is what I don't understand. I always hear of people getting phone numbers left by customers in cafes, bars, restaurants, or just by people on the street, (even if they are weirdos),hell, a girl I used to work with got asked out on the damn shop floor! I’m reaching for the ‘this is bullshit’ key as I write this but realise it’s actually strangely absent from my keyboard.

Come on, apple.

Point is, why the fack (yes I said fack) is this happening in real life to people, and not even just to people in general, people I know, which makes it even more insulting. I can honestly say I have never once received a number from a customer that didn't want me to call them for anything other than for letting them know their goods have arrived in store safely. Nor have I ever had anyone (weirdos included) hit on me on the street, although I did have a homeless woman serenade me with Blank space by Taylor Swift one time, but thats a whole new discussion and I think she just wanted all that money I don't have that I touched on earlier.

Where do these people live? These forward asking people out people people? Are they real everyday people, or do they have their own agenda? What possesses an everyday person in an everyday situation to take it that step further with someone they are having an interaction with? Especially when there is a real chance it could all go so terribly south. I’m of the belief these people are all some kind of super beings that have somehow evolved passed the care factor of rejection, not even if its weird... and here I am having to turn the tv off when something socially awkward happens to a fictional character in a tv show. Maybe I’m the one with the real problem. Maybe they can sense it, and that’s why they don't bother with me. I’m on some secret blacklist or something. That has to be it, right? I’ll take your silence as a sign of agreement.

I do realise Ive gotten a bit silly. But seriously, I understand that people read cues, and are able to act on those cues, I’ve just always found I've been really unaware of them, and maybe this is why I haven't picked up on the rare occasion this might have happened to me. I mean, short of asking me out point blank, I think someone would have to slap me in the face with the D palm of their hand to snap me out of it and realise what was going on.

Regardless, I venture on.

I don’t know about you, but all this dating and flirting talk is all just too hairy for me to navigate most of the time. I may not have a date lined up for this evening, or any cute guys flirting with me on the daily, but I do have my $3 7/11 latte in one hand, and my phone in the other, scrolling through meme upon meme on my way to work every morning. So I ask myself, whose the real loser here?

Besides, I own, The House Bunny, on DVD.

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Blasting tunes while trying to write a marxism essay, uni is hard man.

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Pivotal Fragments of my life - Boy In a Box-Part 1

“She was an incredible woman, and she will never be forgotten, not now, not ever.” Their dreary damp faces stared up at me as I concluded my speech, their tear filled eyes struggling as hard as mine to fight back the uncontrollable flow of tears that now ran down my cheek, splashing onto my speech paper. For a second I almost wanted to, to turn and face them properly, who was there? Who should be? Who shouldn’t?

I turned away from the podium, numb, lost, finding my footing down the few stairs that lead down to the others. The church was small, too small to house the grief that filled my body alone, let alone the others. I past my seat, I past Brad and John, never glancing at their devastated faces, not once. My brothers grief, too much for me to bear. The rows of seats were divided into two sides, the right one, my one, filled with immediate family and close friends. The left, distant relatives, friends, acquaintances, and monsters. I walked between them all, down the blue carpet that lined the walk way. It seemed to stretch on for eternity. That was exactly the word, eternity. An eternity without her, an eternity with nothing. 

There I walked, defeated, overwhelmed with grief walking down that isle, all eyes on me as I silently cried, time seemed to stand perfectly still, complete silence, their eyes, their gaze still nailed to me. I couldn’t stop thinking of the coffin I had seen earlier, so small to house such a spirit, yet a freight would have been too small. I kept thinking about it, sitting right up the front, the sermon had said a few words and had pulled a string; the coffin disappeared behind devouring white curtains that reinforced the devastating fact that that was it, she was really gone, my mum was dead. I reached the exit; I swung the double doors open and never returned to that room.

It was time, we had eaten, we had talked and thanked all those who came, all came to me before leaving, hugging me, wishing me well. So did Kay. My father’s mother, it would be too much of a stretch to identify her as a grandmother. I still remember her face, her way. I had no strength to tell her to leave, to get out of the church, that she had no right to be here, but I couldn’t. I put on a weak smile as she hugged me and told me how incredible my mum was. I almost burst into tears at the sound of this. It almost sounded like she meant it, I knew better.

When the last of them left we decided we would go now, follow the hearse up to the place, in Bendigo that cremated the deceased. My aunty followed our car up as well. I sat in the backseat alone, Brad drove while someone else sat in the passenger seat, I honestly cannot remember, I was not really concentrating at this time on my surroundings. I watched out the windscreen as the white hearse pulled along the shiny wooden coffin that held my mother. It made me upset to think such thoughts but I knew the likelihood of my mother actually being in there were slim, and if she was, how much was. I then felt sick, especially at myself for thinking such morbid and wrong thoughts. It was though, something I’m sure everyone was thinking of in the back of their minds. It was a known fact that my mother’s death was not a gentle one. 

John had gone straight home after the service, but I and Brad had to follow through with the last step, as if feeling the need to wish her one final farewell. I was told, I am not exactly sure by whom that I would get a few moments alone with my mother’s remains before we had to leave her, and although it was not a happy and exciting thing to do, I was looking forward to it, I think I needed it. I felt I needed to say something, although she would never hear it, it might have given me closure and a sense of peace if I said it anyway. 

We arrived up at the front of the place; it was quite majestic and tranquil. Beyond our cars was a flowing creek with a small bridge over it which led to lushes green grass with a well kept garden with strong pinks and red roses. Beyond this was a large white building that was quite a way off on a slight rise. I remember thinking how lovely it was for a place that I assumed would linger of death. The hearse stopped on the gravel driveway that led into the place and up to the far away building. We all got out of our cars and walked up to the man. I didn’t understand why he had stopped; I thought we would follow him up to the building. He thanked us for following him up and how he was taking the coffin away straight away. I started to cry, I said to Brad that I thought I would get a few moments alone with mums remains. I remember he said he thought so too, but maybe there was not enough time. Enough time. What an arbitrary construction; time. Is there ever enough?  

My aunty asked the man if he could at least open the back of the hearse so I could get a flower off the Reith that sat on top of the coffin. He gladly did this, and with my brother, I slowly walked up to the back of the hearse. My brother reached in for me and grabbed a dried yellow flower for me. I stared at it a moment, it was not much, but it was something. I clenched it tight; tears flowed down my face as the hearse slowly pulled away, my mother’s coffin being pulled along in the back. I just stood there, watching it, watching my mother leaving me behind. All the things I never got to say, all the things she would never see or know. I remembered how in the fifth grade I had gotten into a fight at school and I had lied to my mum, I told her that I called the other kid a name that wasn’t half as bad as what I actually called them. She was so trusting; she phoned the school and stuck up for me, saying that her son isn’t a liar and that I had told her exactly what had happened. I thought how I’d never get the chance to tell her what I’d done, that I was sorry. I watched it until it became more and more out of focus and disappeared. She was gone, it started to really sink in, the knowing, she was really gone. 

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WHERE WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO VISIT ON YOUR PLANET?

Anywhere in Europe! Ive never been=)

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I wish my life was like a Nicholas Sparks book *sigh*

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*Dissaproving voice/look* "WAGGY..."

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True.

THE HEX GIRLS ARE COOLER THAN YOU.

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WANT!

Character Building Scooby-Doo - Dracula’s Castle

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Gregory Michael-Only one of the hottest guys on the planet!!!

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9 photos of… Misha Collins asked by Anonymous