So here is the post which got me riled up this morning. 



I am a motor enthusiast. It’s really no secret. My first car was a BMW 318i E36 which I have affectionately named ‘Beewar’ after the first three letters of my number plate. Having been car-mad since I was probably 13 years old, I own countless Wheels magazines and have watched every single Top Gear episode to date. I have attended pretty much every single Australian International Motor Show until it died this year and can name pretty much every single supercar with additional specs when it passes by. So yes, I would consider myself a motor enthusiast. 

I adore my cars, and since receiving Forza Motorsports 5 as a lovely gift with my Xbox One, I have loved nothing more than to look after my vehicle with the love and passion I show my beautiful puppy dog (of whom my boyfriend is rather jealous). I recently purchased a Mercedes Benz A200 CDI EDS. It is a beautiful 2L turbo diesel. Do I sound like a wanker already? Here is my reasoning…

Safety. Power. Efficiency. Fun. I am pretty much the poster girl of Mercedes Benz.

That being said, the post itself questioning P-platers and the regulation surrounding performance vehicles did not anger me at all. It’s the uneducated and impractical commentators who get me cranky. 

Firstly, [Blanked Out Name], I don’t think ANY young person would want to be caught dead driving a Tarago. Secondly, I did my L’s in my father’s 4WD Subaru Outback and drove it well into my P1s. I fail to see why it would be reasonable to have it banned for P-platers as 4WDs are safer and have more responsive steering and therefore are more suitable for young people who need more assistance in controlling their driving. It needs to also be considered that the 4WD may well be the only family vehicle and creating exceptions for every single P-plater who wishes to drive the family vehicle is just creating another tier of bureaucracy to an already highly inefficient government regulator.

But besides that, what are my thoughts on performance vehicles?

I agree with the motor enthusiasts; more Government regulation means reduced motorist responsibility. There is a fine need to consider both personal responsibility and respect for other people’s safety as opposed to simply slapping more regulation. When getting into a motor vehicle, an individual takes on the understanding that they are controlling a machine with the capability to kill. The danger is implicit, which is why motorists take into consideration each of their actions in providing increased safety to not only themselves, but to everyone around them – motorists, pedestrians, property.

Increasing one’s safety can indicate a few things: not texting and driving, wearing a seatbelt, using indicators for merging, and not falling asleep at the wheel. This also includes not speeding. It is everyone’s responsibility not to speed. It’s everyone’s responsibility to be in control of their vehicle because despite bans on performance vehicles, you will always get the inconsiderate idiot who will do 45km and over and put other people’s lives in danger. They could be doing it in the family’s standard Mazda 3 though. It doesn’t have to be a performance vehicle. 

Unfortunately though, regulation upon performance vehicles covers the idiots. This is no different to other regulations. Common decency says don’t go and murder someone else, but you always get the person who will have a drink then punch someone in the back of the head. Legislation and regulation is determining what happens to these people when they do commit the crime. ‘Do the crime; do the time‘ they say. It’s common sense to the everyday person not to speed. Little old grannies could be crossing the road or a car could be turning out from another street and you’re going too fast to see them. Mistakes cost others and regulation is created to dissuade people from committing the crime. 

The problem is that there are the P-plate hoons who pimp their vehicles to make them performance vehicles. They swap parts, install new engines, supercharge the turbos and generally make their cars as loud and as obnoxious as they can possibly be. They then go and street race and put a black mark to our plates.They’re the idiots who break the law and the rest of us have to pay. 

Performance vehicles don’t always mean speed. Though historically, performance vehicles are designed specifically for speed in the design and construction of the power trains, brakes, gear box and steering. Performance vehicles differ from race vehicles as they are designed to be street cars which deliver transport capabilities. Many performance vehicles are also luxury vehicles as they do seem to go hand-in-hand with one another. For example, many manufacturers produce only performance vehicles, but are designed for the luxury market. These include Ashton Martin, Ferrari, Maserati and Porsche. Even Porsche’s neglected mutant, the Porsche Panamera, was designed to be a performance vehicle, but appealed also to the everyday family who wanted a little power with the luxury. 

For some manufacturers, performance vehicles are an art form. As opposed to having mass produced robot-assembled engines, the Mercedes-AMG line has each of their engines handcrafted by a single technician from start to finish, completed with their signature upon the engine plate. It’s beauty for a beast, but shows an expression of human perfection in the AMG line. Though there is speed, Mercedes-AMG boasts perfection in its performance vehicles. 

But all that being said, how do I regard these laws? 

I applaud the NSW Government on lifting restrictions on turbo-charged vehicles which are for environmental purposes (such as my own vehicle which had previously been banned under the laws prior to 1 August 2014). Before then, it was almost pathetic that one could not drive a Ford Fiesta with an EcoBoost engine simply because it had a small turbocharger. Now it makes sense to calculate the kilowatts to the mass of the vehicle, and thus the power output capability of the vehicle and it astounds me that the NSW Government didn’t think of it before. 

But for the rest of us, I agree with the ban on performance vehicles for P-platers. It’s a necessary regulation in place to stop the casual idiot from testing out the horsepower of their turbocharged monster on suburban roads. But we must remember; the P-platers are not the only ones who need to be responsible. You can put a performance vehicle into the hands of the everyday fully licenced man and they can be just as tempted to floor the gas and go all out. It does not make them any less dangerous. 

The problem is that we don’t talk about it in the media as ‘the fully licenced man ploughed into the sedan at over 130km/h’. We only ever hear about the ‘provisional driver’ or the ‘the P-plate 21-year-old’. It’s always the fault of the younger generation. There is always something wrong with us. 

But for the rest of us, keep safe, keep sensible. 

Helpful Links:

NSW Roads and Maritime Service P1 and P2 vehicle restrictions conditions:



P1 and P2 Performance Vehicle Search: 





For some people, their birthday is the highlight of their year. For others, it’s one of the shittiest days of the year. I only realised the other day exactly why I have always hated birthdays – it’s not so much because of the birthday itself; it’s the people

When I was in kindergarten, I remember there already being the ‘popular’ girls in my year; Grace and Caitlin. They were the pair who everyone loved and wanted to be. Unfortunately, that also meant that they were colossal bitches, even at 5 years old. 

Around rolled 28 July 1997. I was turning 5 years old. Having trouble finding friends, Mum encouraged me to invite 20 of my ‘close’ friends in Kindy for my McDonalds party (they were all the rage back in the day!). I remember sitting down and pointing to all the people in my grade from our annual school photos of people I wanted to invite. It didn’t include Grace and Caitlin. My only task was to hand out invitations at school. 

Handing them out at recess, I remember Grace and Caitlin both asking me whether they had been invited because ‘they were my best friends’. I hadn’t, but I lied though; I said I left theirs at home. I remember going home and asking Mum to write invitations to invite them too.

What I had done was unintentionally started the annual tradition of hating my birthday. 

My birthday was no longer about me; it was about them. Everyone loved them, and so everyone wanted to play with them on the playground rather than spend time with me inside the party room. Funnily enough, I remember crying, asking Mum why nobody liked me. 

Ever since then, I’ve hated birthdays. 

Frankly, as it’s rolled around again today, I’ve come to the point where I dislike people doing anything for me on my birthday, or even acknowledging it. The more people do, the more I hate it. 

Either way, it’s agonising when you have to pretend to be thankful and happy for your birthday because for me, a birthday simply means another year has gone without killing myself. 

Happy birthday to me. 

Text exchange with one of my students: 

Student: I did my assessment task today. The people who watched said it was intimidating to follow. Which I guess is good but I hope the teachers think the same. 

Me: Glad to hear! That’s how it should be. Keep your hopes high, we will have more to go through before you can conquer the world. 

Student: But the fact is that I will conquer the world.

Me: Even dictators need good mentors. 

Student: Caesar had to learn from somewhere

Me: And look at his legacy!

Student: I shall one day have a great salad named after me. I promise you. 




 This is Coco. She is my 1-year old Bull Arab puppy. I adopted her on 17 January 2014 from the Hawkesbury Companion Animals Shelter. The reason why I did was because I was lonely. 

In 2012, the world was inhabited by 7 billion people. It’s perhaps a little sad for me to realise that of that 7 billion people, the one I am closest to is my dog. 

I’ve always had trouble connecting to people. From as early as I can remember, I have had trouble making friends, and I have always been insecure about making friends. 

My earliest memory of friendships was when I was in kindergarten. My best friend at the time was a girl named Rachel. As deep as any kindy relationship can get, our friendship was built entirely upon her love for lions, and my star sign as a Leo. With the Lion King being newly released, we both pretended to be lions and had a great love for them. While I remember her being my best friend, I wasn’t hers. Hers was Belinda. They had known each other through their older brothers, and had been friends since before Kindy. I remember wanting to be her best friend, but I never was. 

It’s not really a sad story though. As soon as I left high school, I had decided to get used to being by myself. I see movies alone. I go to breakfast alone. I’ve learned that a book is better company than a person. It’s strange because being alone is a double-edged sword for me. I am happiest when I am alone, but I am also at my saddest.

I can go days without getting an SMS, and I can go weeks without receiving or making a phone call. Socialisation to me is a mere Facebook comment, and my contact with the world is in a Facebook like. Nobody posts on my wall. Nobody sends me a message. I like it that way because I don’t have to impress anyone, and I don’t have to pretend.

It comes in waves though, the feeling of sadness in loneliness. I’m generally fine not going out. Sometimes I don’t go out for weeks. I’ve long since been invited to birthdays or dinners or outings and now that I am growing up, almost all of my close acquaintences have partners, and thus they no longer need another person around. I see their photos on Facebook and oddly enough, I don’t feel anything despite what research claim I should. No jealousy. No isolation. It’s just more news on my newsfeed. 

Every once in a while though, I feel loneliness weigh on me and I think about where I went wrong. Tonight it was my mum getting angry at me and storming off. I wanted someone to talk to about it, but then there was nobody I could talk to without feeling like I was bothering them. Everybody else has their own lives to lead, why would they be concerned with mine? 

But that’s why Coco is so special to me. In a very lame way, Coco is my everything. I’m a boring person. I’m an introvert who becomes extraverted when I need to be. I’m weird. I’ve got quirks. I’ve got the inability to be like everyone else. But Coco doesn’t care. If I’m somewhere, she’s right by my side. Not because she wants food, but because she loves me. She is sad to see me leave for work each day, and she’s over the moon when I get back home. When I stretch my arm out for a hug, she’s right there in my embrace. When I cry, she licks my face and smiles and seems to just understand that her being there makes all the difference to me. 

I know my parents love Coco too, but they’re forever bitter about her. She is my dog, and I bought her on spur without their informed consent. It’s often the only reason why my mother gets angry. But ultimately, I know that Coco has been the key reason as to why my bipolar hasn’t gotten any worse. My bipolar has a lot to do with loneliness, and she has been my buffer and my company and the reason why I’m still alive. 

But it is sad that I should feel this way. But I guess it’s a girl and her best friend. We are inseparable, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Radio show shock-jocks, Kyle and Jackie O, have never been a favourite of mine on the air. Whilst I have nothing against Jackie O, Kyle Sandilands should have been long dismissed for his vulgar and arrogant dickwaddery. He, together with Mike E from the Mike E and Emma Show, are not my favourite people, and despite the good music both KIIS 106.5 and The Edge 96.1 play, I am off-put even by the sound of their voice. 

The topic on KIIS 106.5 was about a staff member of the company wanting to remove her subdermal birth-control rod and ‘accidentally’ fall pregnant to her boyfriend, who does not live locally nor knows that she has removed the rod. Today, it was about discussion. 

I’m a supporter of freewill. However, freewill is only effective when there is an element of personal responsibility. Thus, I am also a supporter of personal responsibility. My religion (Theravada Buddhism) suggests that I am not to kill or take a life and thus, I am effectively restricted from having an abortion. This, however, does not impact my opinion that women, should they choose to have an abortion, should be entitled to do so. It is their body, they can do what they want in the same way that I would choose not to have an abortion in the event that I can choose to have one. 

Working in social welfare, I have seen issues to do with broken families and the ramifications of it. Often, parents choose to make unhealthy decisions for themselves, and the ones who have to pay for it are their children. For example, a friend of mine has a father who left her mother for a younger Javanese woman. He has not visited the family for the past 4 years, despite having 3 children under 10, and two under 20 and another at 22. With a large and young family, my friend is left to carry the burden of providing for her siblings as the parents are ‘financially separated’, and thus he has no obligations to pay child support nor provide for his children. The two oldest ones have been working for the last 4 years to support the neglected family, whilst he enjoys his time worry-free in Java. 

I maintain the thorough belief that having children is not a decision to be taken lightly. Like a puppy, it’s not just a matter of having one, then dumping it when you’re over it. Children are a lifelong obligation, and for a productive society, we need a community which loves and nurtures children rather than deals with the consequences of bad decisions. 

I have no predisposition towards marriage, and whilst most people calling were saying ‘Get hitch before you get preggers’, I don’t believe this is relevant as marriage does not necessarily indicate the strength of a relationship. However, it is a key indicator that her move is fundamentally selfish, ‘I want to have a baby‘. A baby is not yours. It is the baby of both the the father and the mother unless one went to a sperm bank in the absence of a father. Should she wish to have a child with this man, she is putting an extreme obligation and responsibility upon him to support a child. 

A comment which struck me was her statement of ‘If I get accidentally pregnant, what’s the difference between that and a couple planning to have a child?’ I dunno, maybe honesty and preparation?? Judging by the inability of the woman to communicate her desire for a child to her partner, I have the distinct belief that their relationship is probably not as perfect as she claims it to be. What he tells her may differ from fact. He may feel emotionally unprepared, or be financially unstable. God forbid, but if they can’t communicate properly, he may well want to break up with her and not gotten around to it. 

A child is not yours. A child is an individual who should be entitled to a loving, wholesome family. She may fall pregnant, and he may find out the true circumstances, and be forever bitter that she couldn’t be honest to him. I would feel that way. I would feel exploited and untrustworthy. The child may well have been a ‘mistake’, but it was a child created in deceit. Whilst I would still love and cherish them, my bitterness would exist to the one who exploited my ignorance – the mother. (I speak as a woman, but I’m thinking as though I were the man)

As I drove down the Pacific Highway this morning, I found myself distinctly disappointed that it is even a topic on the radio. For all I know, it could be another stupid stunt to generate interest by KIIS 106.5 (and that wouldn’t go above me because they’ve done some stupid ones before). I do however have faith in humanity. There was an overwhelming number of people who confronted her, telling her how irresponsible and selfish she was being in her actions and the ramifications of what she was doing. Many spoke from experience of the emotional wellbeing of the child for the decisions they’ve made, whilst men voiced their feelings about trust and communication. 

Her responsibility is not only to herself in knowing how she can support the child, but to him, and to most importantly, to the child, none of which she truly considered. 

So alas, I switched back my radio to Fitzy and Wippa, and though those boys aren’t the brightest, their humour is not only funny but also mostly harmless. There are no sexist jibes and their fun is usually based on themselves. 

I feel for the child, if it ever comes down to it. 

There are a few words which have been beaten to an inch of what it once meant. ‘Resilience’ is one. ‘Pride’ is another. 

Pride is both a negative and a positive word. When used negatively, pride is an inflated sense of one’s ego or status. Positively, it is a sense of satisfaction and elation attached to one’s actions or values. To be proud is a heavy word, ladened with emotion. It is a deeply spiritual introspection into one’s self. Aristotle once believed it to be the height of one’s virtue. He states:

Pride, then, seems to be a sort of crown of the virtues; for it makes them more powerful, and it is not found without them. Therefore it is hard to be truly proud; for it is impossible without nobility and goodness of character.

I have come to believe this. Pride is difficult to feel as for me as it requires a heavy sense of duty and action to provide grounds for justification. To be suicidal and come out mostly unscathed the next day isn’t pride to me; I feel relieved. To be establishing a charity to connect young people to mental health services isn’t pride; that’s duty. It’s not something that I feel without having justified my actions to deliver pride. 

However nowadays, the word is thrown around so superfluously. I am not a parent so correct me here, but new parents are the worst offenders when using the word ‘proud’. I’m at that age where my friends are starting to get all hot and bothered and nine months later, a Player 3 joins the match. It didn’t use to bother me, but it really has now. 

Here are the offending posts:

“So proud of my little Matthieu! He lost his first tooth!”


“My little James has grown 5cms in a month, I’m so proud of my little boy!”


“Ben got spaghetti all down his top this morning but ate it all himself. So proud of Ben Ben!!”

That’s what I understand. Losing a tooth and growing 5 centimetres is hardly something to be proud of – it’s something every human supposedly does. Getting spaghetti down your top and eating it? I’m sure the kid is a barbarian at best. 

The thing is… I’m not sure what there is to be proud of there. I’m sure there’s a sense of happiness when looking at one’s child, and seeing the silly things they do, but to say one is proud of these things… it seems like they have simply dismissed all value of the word. 

But it seems not to just be the parents. Psychologically, pride is valuable in the ability to positively regard the potential for achievement. In self-reflection, pride is the positive reinforcement of one’s ability, and subsequently, has been shown to enhance the performance of an individual. This is why schools have merit awards for the most average reasons. I remember when I was at school, you could get a bronze, silver or gold award at each week’s assembly. Two students from each class would get a silly little award with a name and some mediocre reason on it like ‘being polite in class’. The way that it used to be done was so that by the end of the year, all students would receive at least one award – no-one was left out. The manufacturing of a reason was so obvious because most of the time, an award shouldn’t be given; their performance was expected. 

I refer to a text conversation I had with a friend a few months ago. He texted me telling me, I did a good deed today. I gave up my seat on the train for an old lady. So proud of myself.

Proud, I said, That’s not a good deed. That’s an expectation. 

He retaliated, I didn’t have to but I did. It’s a good deed. I’m proud because I did. 

Don’t kid yourself. It’s not. It’s polite to give up your seat. It’s also an expectation to give it up when you see an elderly person too. There is no ‘good deed’ in giving up your seat. If you didn’t, you’re inconsiderate and self-centred. If you do, you’re polite and not selfish. I wouldn’t say selfless, because that’s another word that’s been bastardised. Perhaps it’s because I do this all the time, but I find giving up my seat on public transport nothing to be proud about. 

My point is, pride no longer stands for the lion of a word it once was. It languishes in mediocrity and has been forced to wallow in everyday acts. There is no achievement in pride, and there is no duty in it either.

I pity the fools who mistake pride for mediocrity. 


I recently ended a pretty lengthy relationship on some rather interesting grounds. My relationships before then have made me somewhat phobic of the idea of relationships being a good thing but whilst, I could say that all men are douchebags, I don’t. The reason is that I have an older brother. 

While my brother and I live a whole 50 minutes away from each other, we mainly communicate via Whatsapp. While he’s taken my mother’s lack of height and her fiesty temper and buzzing personality, and I’ve taken my dad’s height and hatred for going out and almost autistic methods of connecting with animals, we find ourselves in this really weird equilibrium with one another that only siblinghood can really explain. Though two spawns of the same parents couldn’t be more different, we have always grown to respect and love each other in the way siblings are supposed to. I acknowledge, I was the trouble child – growing up, and emotionally – but we always managed to have fun with each other. Whilst he used to make me get his clothes when he wanted to watch Pokemon in the morning by counting to ten (and I got his clothes because I irrationally feared something would happen when he reached the number ten!), he never used to pull my hair or pull the heads off my Barbies. Though he and his best friend in school apparently dislocated my shoulder playing tug-of-war (which I don’t remember), he has never once hurt me, except for retaliation slaps when I used to slap him first. 

My brother’s always been a pillar in my life. When I remember him always thrashing me in Super Smash Brothers or Mario Tennis on the Nintendo 64, I also remember when he used to suddenly suck, just so that I could win. In addition, I sucked so badly at mathematics that I was being forced to quit it in for my HSC, it was him that took the pressure of giving it up more than harshly than my parents. 

While our relationship has changed, we still go out of the way to do things for each other. Though it would be cheaper, and less burdensome for me to just send him to the local train station from what he calls, ‘our countryside estate’ (it’s not, it’s a house in the suburbs… next to the bush), I enjoy our long chats and bickering in my car back to his city apartment. Though he lives with his girlfriend (who I absolutely love!), he asks me when the next time I want to crash is. Concerned that I dislike going out or don’t have many friends, he invites me to outings with his mates, who are absolutely hilarious good fun. 

The only thing we really fight over is ice cream. I do it to piss him off. He does it because he’s territorial about his ice cream, because nobody touches his ice cream. Not even his girlfriend. 

While this world is filled with penis-headed twats, I’m reminded that not all men are horrible. His fierce protection and loyalty to me is exactly how he is to his girlfriend, and though there may be elements of tough love, it’s his way of showing that he cares. Whilst he thinks that I have a fake boyfriend as the two had never met and that I don’t have him on my Facebook (I think it sours a relationship), I know it’s because he wants to meet the boyfriend to make his judgement and make his stamp of approval. 

Though I do call him lame and I get cranky at his incessant nagging, he is a brilliant son and an incredible brother. When he comes home, he still mows our lawn and takes my Mum and Dad out to eat their favourites. For me, he’s always checking in to see how I am and whether I’m well, and how I’m dealing with life. He looms like a bad smell, but it’s because he cares. He still holds the belief that his little sister shouldn’t be drinking alcohol (we were brought up believing alcohol is bad), though he has an impressive wine collection himself. He still finds it mildly embarrassing that I bought my first car at 19 and he still needs to borrow Dad’s car, but I admire how his apartment is the most stunning home for two that I’ve ever seen. 

In his eyes, I’m still his little sister, to be guarded and protected and taught to be prepared for life in the way that he believes a young woman should be. He gives me a lot of hope for males, and a lot of the time, I wish people could be more like him. 


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