It's prettier, like pink.

Kids, I've migrated to www.saidtrash.wordpress.com

Anyway to avoid the word "blog" and I'll take it. Come visit me and we'll have vodka in miniature teacups. Okay?

best,
Edie.

The only thing I want popped is my Dom Pérignon.

M1nt. Bastion of all that is wondrously and unashamedly hedonistic. Also frequented by those who want to get it on with the laydies. Whether all the gentlemen at this establishment are wealthy or not, I do not know. Nor care really. It’s well stocked with premium vodka, mini sharks in tanks and, um, what else, mini sharks in tanks! Oh! And an abundance of young men who may or may not be in the financial industry, but who definitely think that popping their collars is a blue-chip stock when trying to get in your pants; safe and reliable, not like those leather ass-less chaps.

How dost thou know? I spent part of Saturday night wandering through the crowd at M1nt; politely rearranging these specifically collar afflicted men. Well, the way I see it, I wouldn’t want to wander around a reputable establishment with, say, toilet paper on my shoe. Or my skirt tucked into my underpants. Thus I thought it rather nice of me to either gently rearrange or subtly alert these men to the fact that they were in the midst of a wardrobe malfunction. A few thanked me; most backed away in incomprehension, or was it misapprehension? It was dark, I didn't chase them to find out. One man tried to engage me in conversation by boldly stating “some women like it that way”. Ha! This statement may be less incredulous if related to sexual assault, cocktails invented in the last three weeks (vodkatini anyone? oh my god, that was so five minutes ago), or even – at a stretch – men with hair product/s. Collars popped? No. Just no.

I’m going to make a broad generalization here: anyone who has sex with a man who parades the popped collar most likely does not know his last name, but does know the thread count of his sheets; after four dates he also calls you “babe”, which you and your friends think is adorable. Sorry to break it to you, but he probably figures it’s not polite to ask your name when his dick is in your mouth.

Leave my womb alone.

Remember when you were a kid and crazy things seem like a really cool idea and you keep sending off cereal box top coupons for x-ray specs even though you know deep down they will never work?

Yeah, well I used to think smellivision was going to be the next most awesome thing ever. Then I grew up and encountered scat porn.

                 Kids are idiots. 

007 is not a penis

My questionable theory for today:

When boys send me pictures of their penises (well, not boys, only one specific one at the moment, I'm not a total hussy), it makes me want to giggle. They just look so . . . cute? Oh I know, penises are not like bunny rabbits and midgets, but try and tell me you have never seen a boy standing proud with his pecker to attention - look mom! see what I did! - and tell me the cute word never flickered across your mind; this is obviously before they flipped you over and morphed into a sexy hunk of man flesh that made you quiver in desire (I once had to read a Harlequin book for English Lit. one-oh-something; Australian education is sexy).

Girls bits, on the other fortunate hand of the ambidextrous, are fascinating. I wish I was gay enough to be able to back this up with some lesbian sexual fantasy, but unfortunately for all - except aforementioned lucky lad - I am not. There is something about vaginas that is so turny ony (for want of a much better phrase). They glisten and they're moist and they have the most intimately intricate folds. Even as a straight girl, albeit with mild scoliosis, I love them! Maybe it's because I haven't had sex in months (long distance relationship is building my right arm muscles), or maybe I have penis envy, or even possibly I was really good at that game when you were a kid and you had to put block shapes into the right hole, but I think vaginas are far more sexually intriguing because you can put things in them!

If you think of the rate of maturation between boys and girls you can very loosely - loose like a celebuslit* - liken our differing genitals. My best friend is an aunt to a set of niece and nephew twins (they came in a Happy Meal). One evening we were looking after the little tykes, and uh wow. While the little girl built block houses and organised her brother to bring his dumptruck over to pick up the garbage on her hypothetical Wednesday night, little brother just squatted nearby on what could only be assumed to be the "wrong side of the tracks", fiddling with his penis and giggling - until he peed on the floor and ran over to smash down the wooden block housing estate. (Please note, we were about to put them in the bath - my friend and her family do not generally condone free peeing indoors) The metaphor I'm vaguely conjuring - in my head at least - is that penises, like little boys, aren't particularly intelligent. They require little else but themselves to amuse them.

The very long winded point I'm somehow, maybe, making, is that penises are physically available and require attention, acknowledgement and most importantly announce themselves when they're ready to play, or whatever. Vaginas tend to encourage the mind to be imaginative; they spread (ha!) the boundaries of possibility.

And thus I conclude that a penis could never be James Bond because they lack the stealth, subtly and style of their moist, tender counterparts.


*celebuslit: a celbrity vagina that can be googled

Afternoon Angst.

Today I was thinking about posture, and how it makes me feel totally fat? You know? It's like when I sit up straight this roll just hangs over the top of my jeans and totally makes me feel like I'm accidentally slipping into a downward tragic spiral like Britney. And it is accidental! I mean, if I was the skinny Olsen and had nothing to do but look cute and smoke and drink coffee, I would so be as thin and blonde as them. But I'm allergic to coffee! It makes me vomit! Which, incidentally, maybe I should look into as a weight loss solution - bulimia and all. I am totally bummed about the roll though. I'm not even eating bread rolls right now, it's all so unfair! And I have to work. I get sugar cravings. It's just so not good. I wonder if cocaine is illegal in China? I could be just like Lindsay! And I have a friend who djs and she's also a gaydy so it would totally be like a Samantha Ronson Lohan parallel. Awesome, have sooo got to tell her about it next time we meet! Urhhhhhm, where was I? Oh yeah, anyway, I think I'll go shopping tonight and buy some baggy tshirts and laxatives. I am gonna rock the whole skinny chick in her boyfriend's tshirt look. And spending half the night on the toilet is gonna give me the perfect eye bags and lanky hair. Like, totally the new Olsen sister. Cute! Wish I had Louboutins.

I would rather be a hermit than talk to fucking stupid idiots.

I don't understand why people insist on writing like retards on the internet, in text messages and on instant messenger. I'm neither old, daft or resistant to technology - I can even construct basic html (even though it often fucks up because I spell colour with a u and apparently the world wide web is American) - but I cannot understand this new stupid version of English that threatens to engulf the world and will have the eventual terrible outcome of de-potty-training us all. Obviously there is no scientific fact that backs up my hypothesis but human de-evolution is likely if we lose the ability to at least appear more intelligent than dolphins, no?

I have a rather common messenger address. I created it about a decade ago and miraculously still use it. Due to this common address, rather like Paris Hilton's vadge, I have been mistakenly been contacted by many people, mostly teenagers. When I was a teenager, the closest you got to meeting strangers was at a weekend party you crashed and only had the courage to talk to anyone because you were drunk and it was only slightly less embarrassing to ask where the bathroom was than spew on the carpet in the corner. Now, however, I'm being contacted by a veritable army of seemingly ill-educated little dipshits. They can neither spell, construct a sentence correctly or communicate politely with a stranger. The youth of today! I'm not sure if it's peer pressure or just plain teenage rebellion against educators, but it seems that this generation of teenagers and young adults are purposefully turning themselves into extremely dumb and quite possibly useless individuals. (No wonder President Bush's "No Child Left Behind" policy isn't working, you can't fight progress.) Even worse are the adults who were normal, functioning, even contributing members of society, who could spell and could interact in social environs with ease and now they are suddenly deciding to devolve and join the ranks of the ever growing illiterate army. Old men with pony tails and expensive ripped designer jeans- fine, if you must. Becoming deliberately daft to connect to the youth of today? Oh please.

When contacted by strange youth through instant messenger, I can barely resist the urge to ridicule them with large words and lecture them on stranger danger. Oh hell, I don't even attempt to, I just launch right in. A conversation lasts approximately two minutes until I want to throw my laptop at a wall because they are so fucking dumb. Really. Anyway, at this point I tell them that I am possibly too old to be talking to them as they haven't yet learnt the basic constructs of the English language and therefore it might be inappropriate (uh, ever heard of paedophiles?) and shouldn't they be at school? Or doing homework? Or possibly with a tutor who might be able to help them with their language skills? And why are they on the internet at such a young age contacting strangers? Where are your parents? When they proceed to berate me in their idiotic language with the basic eloquence of a sixteen year old with a bad case of acne (albeit it takes me quite a while to figure out what they are attempting to say in the first place so this process of discovering they are actually sixteen can take a while) it tends to upset me quite a bit. When did it become commonplace for teenagers to be so fucking rude? Yes, of course, teenagers have always been like that, myself not excepted. But at least we kept our evil mutterings to ourselves and only had an aura of evil malaise! I know that I at least could conduct a conversation with any of my parents' friends when forced to, and I was even polite to strangers who asked me the time. But to contact a complete stranger over the internet and then roundly abuse them for not revealing name, age, sex and bank account details?! What has happened to the veneer of respect?

I'm too pissed off to write anything else. Except that it makes me even more angry when people my own age (mid twenties) insist on communicating like illiterate fuckwits.

(I'm not even editing this piece. My soul is aching and my dignity threatens to collapse and the next thing you know I will be a BBC reporter yelling at Scientologists over the idiocy of it all . . . but I will stop here.)

Glossies are a Girl’s Best Friend (cute! so tough!)

I wrote this in a moment of teenage angst, and then commented on it when I finally got my first period yesterday. Menstruating is a fuckin bitch.

From makeup to fashion, diets to disease, there’s not a lot in the world that can’t be explained by these feminine doyennes. It’s all designed to make you look just like her, she and the girl sitting next to you. Tips to widen your eyes, plump up your lips, reduce your hips and grow your tits. Although in Asia they take the cheap option on breast augmentation and just buy a bra two cups too big. Deal with the consequences when they feel slutty I suppose. They fuck with your genetics and then make a lame arsed attempt to bolster your self image. There’s a reason why every woman doesn’t look like a pre-pubescent supermodel. It’s because they just fucking aren’t. Fashion, makeup, diets and 2005s most kinky position doesn’t suit everyone, so quit obsessing. And the sooner women start to understand that oestrogen isn’t evil, perhaps they’ll have more time to appreciate the finer points in life. Looking good is all to do with proportion and feeling good is all to do with trusting your own tastes. Eat garlic on dates. Sleep in your mascara. Wear all your jewellery at once. Swear like a fishwife. Rip your jeans climbing fences. Wear your sunnies at night. Buy designer if you want it (don’t sell out on the look-alikes – they do not look alike). Call a boy if you want him. And above all, if you wanna fuck, then do it. And do it properly. Forget about the bullshit you’ve retained about which position slims your thighs and how to make your stomach appear smaller by painting your toenails. You don’t deserve to orgasm if that’s your deal. As for taking it from behind being degrading? I gotta ask: Who the hell are you screwing, missy?

Aw bless. I was a sweetheart back then.