Meta-Blogging

Don't you hate it when you have an idea for something to write about and you start to write it but then realise it sucks and delete it instead?

Yeah. Me too.

See, I was going to write about how I can't finish anything lately or get any of my great ideas off the ground and that I suspect I may have burnt out my creative abilities too early. I was then going to make a list of all the things I'd done before I'd reached my mid-twenties, like running my own zine distribution business, showing horses, working door at a major nightclub, speaking at the National Young Writers' Festival, being a Pony Club instructor and on the State Pony Club Committee, managing a fast-food shop, creating a Fringe show about brothel workers, disappearing into the rave scene, performing in youth theatre, studying psychology and teaching before being accepted into Drama school, and so on and so on, ad nauseam.

Then I was going to make some reference to all the stuff I'd talked about doing recently (rehearsal groups, play reading nights, collaborative shows, magazine articles, performance events) but never completed, and then I was going to bemoan this fact in light of my previous inexhaustible enthusiasm and try to find a reason for it.


But this all seemed SO FUCKING BORING that I gave up.

My, my, my...

Aren't we angsty.

Reading over the last few entries in my much-neglected blog, this is the impression I am left with. If one were to know only the 'me' that is presented here - self-deprecating, intense, lonely - one could be forgiven for finding me a little tedious.

But I am still here, under all those doleful entries, I promise. Eating popcorn in bed and watching Gossip Girl late into the night, making droll comments on friends' facebook pages on my iPhone, and hiding toy wrestlers in compromising positions around the house to be discovered at unexpected moments by my reluctant housemates.

So all is not as it may, at first read, seem.

....

I'm even buying a kitten.

I can't offend you more than I offend myself..

I’m feeling a lot of doubt, in myself as a person, as an actor, as a woman/girl/female (it doesn’t feel right referring to myself as a woman but that’s an issue I’ll have to leave for another day).
I wonder, all the time, so much so that it’s almost not worth mentioning, whether I’m deluding myself with this whole acting malarkey. But that inevitably leads to thoughts of whether I’m deluding myself with this whole life business.
Sometime in my past, somehow, I latched onto the idea of acting to give myself a purpose. And now, at 28 years old, I’m returning to the moment when that decision was made and once again asking, “what now?”
And so indeed, what now? If not an actor then what? A director? Well, that’s just as delusional as the so-called career I’ve already got. An Olympic equestrienne? Hah! A teacher? Where’s the bottle of cheap wine and sleeping pills please. A writer? Well we’re back to the impossibleness of the realm of the actor and director. So….
A prostitute? Financially lucrative but I’ve never been much good with men. And I have tiny breasts. A dog trainer? Wonderful fun but pays just enough to keep a small poodle in kibble for a couple of days with owner living in cardboard box. Hmm…. I’m drawing a blank. What else interests me? Retail sales manager? I can see my future now. Forty-five and dressed like a girl, telling some insecure brat that she looks ‘hot’.
What else? What else? Fucking God please tell me what else?!
I. Can. Not. Think. Of. Any. Other. Profession. That. I. Would. Be. Good. At.
What do I do? Starve myself to death to avoid my inevitable descent into middle-aged mediocrity? But I’ve already tried that and I’m bored with the self-indulgent narcissism it demands.
What would I be great at? I could watch DVDs for a living. Read books. Look up celebrities on the internet. Browse for weight-loss tips. Tan once a year. Do cryptic crosswords. Eat breakfast at a cafe everyday. Forget to call my parents. Stay up late. Download TV shows. Park illegally. Take mediocre photos and post them on my blog. Buy clothes. Buy cosmetics. Try to find the cure for acne. Eat my own weight in popcorn. Pick up other peoples rubbish while tsking audibly. Write down ideas for outfits I will never wear. Read Amazon book reviews for book I will never buy. Look up IMDb profiles for actors I have never heard of. Doubt myself. Doubt myself. Doubt myself.
I’m so exhausted with the thought of the meaning of the pursuit of fulfilment in life that I cannot even bring myself to think of a way to end this bitter diatri…

On a Perfect Day in Retail: Afterword

It would seem that one of my previous, somewhat politically incorrect entries has been the cause of displeasure in a number of readers. To illustrate:

Anonymous said...
To the retail bitch who whinges about her potential customers... I say... hey without us annoying shoppers you wouldn't have a job lady! Thanks for being so helpful, you'll get no commission from me...< Love "one size does not fit all". At least my food stays down...

Well.
I feel the need to make a few things clear.

Unfortunately for me, when I write I'll willingly forgo self-preservation for the sake of honesty. I'm not afraid to express a particular sentiment where others may decide it best not to.
So writing about the thoughts that occasionally go through my head during my 9-hour days of standing in a tiny space, giving all my care and attention to the complete strangers who walk into my shop, does not mean that these are thoughts I would ever voice, or in fact would have any desire to. Nor are they any different to the private, negative little thoughts that everybody has on a daily basis.
The difference is, I decided to reveal mine for your reading pleasure (or displeasure, it would seem).

But as an addendum to that entry I'd like to say this:
I love my job. Because making women of any age and shape feel good about themselves is a wonderful experience. It's also a service that is largely under-appreciated, due in part to the general perception of sales girls as commission-chasing Barbies. And they do exist, but paradoxically they are the sales assistants who earn their bosses the least amount of money. I, however, earn my bosses a good deal of money because I don't actually care about making money (and for the record, I earn no commissions or bonuses, just a flat, hourly rate). I think all women are stunning, and it breaks my heart when I hear a woman say she'll buy that beautiful dress after she's lost a few pounds, or a teenage girl admit her mother thinks she's fat.
Incidentally, the final, particularly nasty thought expressed in that entry did not materialise in response to the customers weight, but rather to what she was doing to the unpurchased clothes she was trying on; specifically stretching them beyond all recognition with her hands and aggressively pulling at them with no concern for their mass-produced welfare.

So, if I have offended, think but this and all is mended;
I didn't really mean it.

I am upset because...

... last night I went to the closing party for the Loreal Melbourne Fashion Festival (aka fashion week) held by Oyster Magazine and took stacks of photos of the beautiful, creative, drunk and desperate. Today I connected my camera to upload the photos and, to my great chagrin, found that my CF card had inexplicably wiped itself and left the data storage business.

I apologise to all the people who posed for me who've already gone out and bought tickets to my blog. Your dignity will be returned to you post haste.