Why do I like Tinder so much when the anecdotal evidence is so gruesome? Well, it’s not for the results (obviously). They’re fucking awful. But like the quintessential watering hole, Tinder at least is trying to preserve the quixotic feeling you should always charge at earthen windmills, because occasionally nature or the windmill will let you feel like you won.
Radiohead’s No Surprises was playing over the PA in the varsity bar yesterday. Until that moment I realised I had completely forgot one of the first things I loved about. A Fake Plastic Tree moment – when you revisit something so amazing yet has rested for so long you senses tune in, arrested by what feels like a new discovery.
Tinder is a rudderless round-edged, bicolour classified for everyone to broadcast their most glorified, deprecating, sane, silly, moderate, alternative, kind, truthful and untrue self – complemented by a postcard slideshow.
Patrolling the oesophagus of her temporary new home, Laurie would be feeling more ashamed if she wasn’t already feeling so sorry for herself.
The Anarchist Crab mindlessly watched a fog bank roll across a distant and uncertain sun. Through the distant roar of waves and whisking winds it could hear the Bipolar Jellyfish passionately explain its common and concerning happenstance of being beached.
A Tale of Winter and Samsara on Sullivan’s Island: The Anarchist Crab scuttled back and forth in a fury of panic. This occurred daily. Yet, it never altered or dented the vexation and venom with which the Anarchist Crab put into the monotonous task of digging a new home – because it was a job, and a joke, (which many of us can sympathise) to accommodate something out of its control.
Late last year the government’s “Work for Dole” scheme was widely shamed in the media for largely being a big failure. Figures suggested less than 19% of participants found employment after three months on the scheme and only increased the chance of finding full-time work by 2%. This wasn’t surprising to many including welfare groups because it was a placebo program which had no architecture for pathways back into the workforce. As a result it was claimed the government would effectively abandon its expensive flagship failure by restricting it to unemployed people under 25? Almost a year after The Australian reported this it seems not much has changed – an unaccountable Government demanding increased accountability of its most underprivileged constituents, while eroding the core of support and benefits it should be protecting.
On the backpacker’s road I’ve witnessed this phenomenon of moral dexterity often, especially pertaining to food, as well as drug use. It’s not uncommon for moderate backpackers to carry a libertine check list, much like the adjunct list of monuments and museums when they embark on a round-the-world trip of a lifetime.
Exposure to killing shit polarises critics and supporters much like ultra-violent video games and movies. While some claim it rots our moral fibre, making us more apathetic, aggressive and cruel, others would argue killing shit and eating what you kill can be a humbling and humanising experience.
Although the genesis for the almost all of my childhood holiday expeditions involved killing shit, the positive outcome was all the magical places we visited as a result.
Examining my history of violence and how we come to kill shit I should admit, irrespective of how influential my brother was killing shit I wasn’t blameless either.
Exploring the history of violence and my brother killing shit, ergo me killing shit I should explain our dad was the son of a farmer.
This is an exploration into the history of violence and how we come to kill shit. I have to already admit I can’t rightly blame my older bro even though the signs were there early.
I clean out my msg inbox while waiting at my stop across from Pizza Express on the corner of Lapwing Lane. I do it ruthlessly. It’s my meditation when waiting for the bus or friends. I come across the last message I sent to my dad: ‘Do we spell skeptisim with a K?’ ‘No C,’ dad replied. Lead snakes squirm in my belly. I beat the serpents down with hickory of stolid ancestry. I don’t delete the msg. I don’t …
What do football, flags, racism and same sex marriage have in common? Based on recent debates in news and social media (both locally and abroad) the only thing invested parties might agree on is how different these issues are. So it’s not without irony that I’ve been struck by how similar the pattern noise and nuance is that feeds these discussions.
Her heart fastened to the surfer curls of the server. She was sure he surfed. He was probably a vegetarian, maybe even a vegan too. She had a gift for knowing (things about) people so she didn’t need to test how accurate her instinct was.
The more practice everyone gets at letting go they might kind of like it and want to let go of other things – like branding sporting teams with derogatory and offensive American Indian names and logos, along with the tight grip around loose gun laws in the USA which enable such instances of mass shootings and gun-related violence.
The rain stops as suddenly as it starts. The sky clears and the Grand Basin quickly turns dry and brown and crusty again. A familiar cycle sloughs in the leaves with the warm breeze, wafting into the joints and hearts of all creatures.
The Morose Blue Gorilla appeared at the beginning of the wet season. Scattered showers rode indiscriminately overhead and the long, dark green grass quickly returned. Its copper tinted stems glinted in the sunlight. It was said to be caused by Mt Thirsty – some claimed alchemy in the soil.
The Tedious Giraffe wasn’t to blame. She was taller than most giraffes and covered in big, brown, woolly oblong patches. She was well beyond the sharp pinch of loneliness that compelled other creatures of the Grand Basin into complex arrangements of company and elaborate communities based on caste and status.