Last Friday evening, I partook in perhaps my favourite Friday-evening turn of events. A little visit to the cinemas (Scott Pilgrim - I highly recommend it), followed by a late dinner at the ever-classy Shanghai Dumplings.
Inside the dumpling palace, somewhere between the fourth round of “Happy Birthday” and a dumpling finding its way into my tea, I spotted the most incredible thing. So beautiful, so majestic: it was my very first fem-mullet. Hard to believe, I know. Coming from Croydon, one would think that this is no new phenomenon to me. But this fem-mullet was so elegant that I was almost moved to tears. And so, when I returned home, I did a little research: just how do these fabulous hairstyles diversify? (No, I wasn’t drunk.)
A quick internet definition search for “fem-mullet” will land you with the following: “A mullet (perhaps with a rattail) sported by a woman; aka lady mullet.”
Tip of the iceberg…
The streamlined fem-mullet has been designed to offer the least resistance to fluid flow. It is the minimalist’s mullet; pure essentials. Highly organised, this mullet sports the mull-efficiency of 0.9. Notice the sleek streamlines and perfect distribution of frizz balancing out the full cheeks. Pure elegance, augmented best with a snazzy tartan T-shirt.
The carnie mullet is a popular breed, and so competition for dominance is high. It’s clear that these particular fem-mulls pride themselves on their palettes and ravenous appetites. It spends 88% of its life fixated on what it will eat and where it will eat next. It prefers fast food establishments and favours food high in sodium, fats and carbohydrates. Tight-fitting denim jeans go well with this combo, and plain white shirts (which are available for purchase at your local Big W). Rarely seen in urban environments because they do not like to leave the comfort and familiarity of their cozy trailer park community.
The sports mullet is truly something to behold. There is a certain confidence emulating from this beast. The overweight chub stance and the glorious mullet both encourage and exaggerate the authoritative role this hottie plays in life. Capable of intense angry stares and inspirational yelling matches, this breed is nothing less than mullarific.
If you catch sight of any other fem-mullets, I’d love to hear your tales. Beware, though: many of these specimens are angry at heart, and no doubt sick of staring at the camera lenses and pointed ridicule.
I see this becoming an unhealthy obsession…
I want/need a new mobile phone— I’ve had my current one for a couple of years now, and have kept it in rather good condition. Then I gave it to my brother to use while I was in Japan, and came back to find it in a slightly worse state than I’d left it in.
Now, I have some options.
- I can go out and buy a shiny new phone. Either an iPhone, or one of the nifty new Nokia phones, or even a Samsung.
- I can buy my grandfather’s phone from him— the second-latest HTC touch phone (model before the Diamond), for like, $150.
- I can not buy any phones, and just deal with the one I have now.
But I want a new phone, so option three isn’t being taken very seriously. So I have to decide whether to fork out $800+ for a new phone, or I can go for the cheaper alternative, and buy thhe HTC.
As much as I would really, really like to be the proud new owner of an iPhone, I’m thinking I don’t have that money just lying around, so HTC may be the way to go.
Have you looked at iPhones on a plan? I’m with 3, and it doesn’t work out too pricey. Plus, they’re awesome. Seriously. If you don’t mind the idea of relying on technology, it can be a real lifeline. In a typical day, I tend to check email, listen to music, scan youtube, play some damned addictive games, check/fuck around with my bank account, bum around on facebook, access the local train, bus and tram times with literally two taps on the screen, update my “schedule” on outlook (assignments, dates etc) and get out of jams with GPS - because we all know what my sense of direction is like.
I mean, I totally see where you’re coming from on the financial perspective. I guess my claim is: they’re well and truly worth the sacrifice.
:D :D :D
iPhone addict signs off…
O ice cream,
How I love you,
You shall never know,
For your frigid touch,
And creamy texture,
Sing delightful notes,
And present flavours,
Of resplendent seduction
To my buds of taste.
That was my Ode to Ice cream.
I made it up just then.
It may or may not make much sense.
PLEASE never write poems about people.
I shudder to think…
Good boy, Cory. Good boy.
and here’s the real thing for comparison. i really did a terrible job with my picture. must learn to draw on a computer with more precision.
You should invest in some money.
Then invest in a tablet!
Today something horrible happened. I awoke to my true addiction to technology. I got home and tried to sign in to my MSN account, and for some reason it wouldn’t let me, saying that my password was incorrect. I then went to the hotmail site to try and sign in and the same reaction met me. After about a hour of fiddling around, I reached the conclusion that somehow my hotmail account (that I’d had since year 7) was inaccessible. As was the new gmail account that I had just created to access msn with. Luckily a Live email account managed to get me in, and all was soon back to normal, despite some shock and horror.
I had discovered my true dependency on all of these social networking sites. And it actually scared me. All of the hours that I have wasted (or some would say; gained) on the Internet were adding up in my head. There were days where people spent their hours doing many more important things. And they didn’t have a breakdown when their MSN wouldn’t let them sign in.
Then I came to an idea. Could I go one full week without going on the Internet? Then this idea turned into a challenge. And now I’m fully accepting the challenge within my own mind. A battle. A kind-of master of one’s web domain. Think of all of the hours that I can spend doing more important things, like reading, watching all of those episodes of Mad Men and True Blood that I need to catch up on. All of those movies I haven’t seen. This challenge all of the sudden seems very exciting. And I wonder if I can make it last longer than a week?
After all, I’ve managed to stay off Maccas for what is coming close to five months, which was on a bet of pride, as much as it was on self control. But five months later, and I’m surely more healthy and richer. Surely, right? Well, let’s see if this can happen. In fact, I’m setting a date. From the week starting Monday the 6th, I will only allow myself to check my student email for important exchange updates and that’s all. I will be the master of my web domain!
I’m entertained by the idea that you’re planning to replace technology with technology. But I applaud your resolve. Good luck.
Have you ever heard a word for the first time, and then the same word is used again that very day, in an unconnected environment?
Well something similar has happened to me lately. But not so much with a single word as with a whole subject. A rather important subject, as far as we mortals are concerned. Death.
I don’t mean to state it in the macabre sense that is usually associated with death. In fact, the feelings that the idea of death conjures up relates to this topic.
Here’s how I do/do not perceive death:
I don’t see how “life after death” could exist. In fact the only reasons I can think of that would prompt such beliefs are:
With this elaboration at hand, I say that death doesn’t scare me. It doesn’t really bother me that much at all. My own death, that is. The idea of those around me who I love, respect and depend on dying does not appeal in the slightest. But when faced with my own mortality, I don’t think I’d feel a whole lot of regret for the potential life that’s being snatched away from me. And I think this probably relates to how I percieve death; an inevitable and biological process. So, *shrug*.
Have you ever wondered what you’d want your funeral to be like? (Once again - dot point time!)
Not that I’m planning to die anytime soon, of course. I’m far too self-important to even conceive wrapping up on this plane before 70. Still, I like the idea of people knowing what I like and how I perceive death. Although… I’m not sure if it was my original intention that the general public have access to these feelings. Meh. No apologies, no regrets.
Oh dear. A little corner of the web devoted to rants, raves, and odes of Daniel Flynn. Yes, that’s right, odes. I’m sure I can find something to write an ode about.
Let’s start out, though, with some “me” stuff… for people who read this blog and don’t know me. If you are one of these people, by the way, you’re just plain fucking weird. Get off my blog. That’s right, X button. Up top. Clicky click.
The first thing you need to know about me is that I’m currently at war with my router. Despite the fact that we already live on the edge of the Croydon exchange, which makes our internet shitty enough as it is, the pile-of-crap router decides to spontaneously go nuts about 4 times a day. I’ve spent an alarming number of Wednesday nights this year with an incredibly faggy cocktail in one hand (usually including umbrella) kicking and screeching at said router that it’ll never be loved… as if I can actually depress the thing into functioning properly. Why Wednesdays? Because my physics lab was on Wednesday afternoons, and the report due the following day at noon. Hence the alcohol, and the necessity for functioning internet.
Speaking of physics, though, I might as well tell you all what it is I do. I study science at the University of Melbourne, and their *held at gunpoint* wonderful New Generation courses dictate that if I want to insist people call me “Doctor” at parties, I need to spend another six-and-a-half years as a student. Sigh.
“Science” is not really a good enough description to relay my academic interests. At least not for people who spend < 3 hours a day with a pram, cigarette, can of Jim Beam, and explosive anger towards the father of their spawn at Ringwood station. What I really do is maths and physics, with a passing interest in chemistry. It’s hard to decide what to continue on with next year; maths is the current favourite, but it’s hard to accept the idea of spending the rest of my life theorising and proving abstract ideas that will only come in handy to society years after I perish (if at all). That’s pretty much what higher-level pure maths is these days. So instead, I think I’ll major in “mathematical physics”, then go back for a diploma in real maths, take 6 months off and the continue on with physics again. Maybe study nuclear physics. Just… you know… solve the world’s power problems by perfecting nuclear fusion, or maybe by inventing a ZPM. It’d be purple. Fuck orange.
I love being a student. It’s like, I’m only really happy, and only feel alive, when I have too much to do and don’t understand all of what’s going on. Which is definitely the case. And yet I keep writing blog. Meh.
But yes. That’s not the only perk to being a student. Concession cards, pub crawls, coffee and the daily competition: who can buy the cheapest lunch. Personally, I’ve narrowed it down to a 45 cent giant apple from Queen Vic Market. But if you’re actually hungry, then I thoroughly recommend a Miso Soup from that tiny Japanese shop between Boost and the Crepe place at Melbourne Central. Two bucks. Party in my pants. It’s my blog, I’ll say what I want to.
Food. One of the best things in the world. I think I enjoy food more than most other people do. Just the sensation of eating - I find it awesome. And there’s only two things I won’t eat: liquorice and veal. One because of the gross taste, one because it’s tied-up baby cows. Oh, I’m also not so big on spicy food.
Lately, I’ve fallen in love with muesli and yoghurt. With strawberries and cranberries. I’ve also developed an addiction to apricot nectar —> weird, I know. But try it. You might be surprised.
Before I take my leave to finish copying out my notes on vector calculus for no reason, and try to ram 5 litres of pumpkin soup into the freezer, I will mention one other thing about me. I can’t sing. I mean I can’t sing at all. But that sure as fuck doesn’t stop me. Just so you know.
Welcome to my blog.
This photo shows how inappropriate I often become.
Here’s your warning: My mouth in close proximity to the boobs of year level dux is just the beginning…