Women are people too. Just sayin'.

OK, I'm gonna start with a story and then launch into random but related crap:
The first time I tried to kill myself I was only ten years old. Not a joke. I tried to hang myself with a skipping rope (that part is a little funny...) but knots were not my strong point, a fact that saved my life. I had two skinned knees to explain to my mother, but I was alive to explain. Now I'm glad, back then I just got pushed into a deeper depression; I'd found something else I'm no good at...
I was very good at creative writing, very good at craft, at art, at singing, at maths, at science and at computer studies. None of those things mattered. They were barely ever encouraged. All that mattered to my teachers was that I had bad handwriting, and didn't like sport. All that mattered to my peers was that I was bad at sport, spent a lot of time with the year one kids, and had no friends my own age. Children my age had been calling me "ugly" the entire time I was at school, even at preschool, and before that at childcare when I was three. I'd always had no friends my own age and been called ugly. I look at pictures now which were taken at the time, and that is not an ugly little girl! But when you hear something so often, how can you help but think it's true? I related this situation to fairy tales. The evil witch is always evil, scary and mean. Good fairies, good witches and princesses are always beautiful. I "knew" in my heart that if I was ugly, I would live my life hated, because, after all, it's not like I'm a man and my looks don't matter... I even thought that maybe I was evil, which is why I'd turned out ugly. I "knew" nobody would ever love me, I'd never get married or have a family, men only want to marry the princess, not the warty old witch! It certainly didn't help that for almost two years at this point I'd been getting the occasional pimple. I equated them with the witches' warts and arrived at the conclusion that I was hideous and unlovable. Thank God for bad knots! I stood up, went inside and had a cry. About an hour later my mum made me a cup of tea and brought me a cupcake. I was glad I had my mum, but I didn't feel any better for years.

I was twelve when a girl in my class at school said to me, "You'll never get a boyfriend if you don't act how boys want you to act!" I asked this eleven year old girl what that meant, and she said, "You need to wear shorter skirts, unbutton your skirt, stick your boobs out when you walk and wear lots of make up, like me." I looked at her, saw Barbie, and felt sick in case it was true. I interrupt this post to bring you my list of things I see/hear about little girls doing that makes me sick:

1. Wearing string bikinis (outside of dress-ups)
2. Wearing high heel shoes (outside of dress-ups)
3. Talking about kissing boys and making their friends who haven't been kissed feel inferior (have seen this in four-year-olds)
4. Calling each other ugly
5. Calling each other sluts (have seen this with year two kids!)
6. Using "bitch" as a term of endearment.
7. Teasing friends who aren't allowed to wear make-up

Anyway, I'm basically bothered in a big way by anything that makes out that girls and women aren't allowed to be smart else nobody will love them, or if they're pretty they must be stupid, or if they enjoy playing or watching sport they're obviously gay. Other things which irritate me include the phrase "women and children", indicating that women are somehow below men and need to be sheltered and protected, when people say "men and girls" when they mean "men and women" and being addressed as "bitch" EVER.

Also, I don't like being asked, especially by men, why I don't wear make-up. To those men I say, "You first!". I shouldn't have to remove every hair below my eyebrows, and some from my eyebrows, cover my face in goo and force my body into all kinds of painful contraptions because I was born with a vagina! Yes, I said "vagina". I have one of those and a brain at the same time.

I was thirteen and really wanted to get a job as a trolley collector at Coles (please don't laugh. I just really like shopping trolleys). I told my dad and he said, "I've noticed something about all the trolley girls in Maryborough; they're all boys." I then stopped talking to him completely for two weeks while mum and I looked around for trolley girls. We found several, I then spoke to dad to point this out to him and he said, without ever meeting those girls, "Yes, but they're not smart! Most girls aren't smart like you! You can get a nice inside job behind a cash register!" So, that's what intelligent women have to aspire to, eh dad? Checkout chick. Great. Alert the Nobel people.

As a child I played with an equal mix of "boy" things and "girl" things; my Barbie really loved her monster truck. My dad drew the line, though, when I had my heart set on a skate board. He said they were only for boys and lesbians. He actually told his seven-year-old she couldn't have a skateboard because he didn't want her to turn gay. Yes dad. That's what'll do it. A skateboard.
I've still to this day never ridden a skateboard.

If anyone has similar stories to anything outlined above, I'd love to hear from you!

Signed with so much love,

The Pretty Kitty.

Southport.

Christians with bad haircuts in suits keep coming up to me and asking me if I know Jesus. There may be some kind of convention on, or they may just feel I need saving from the fiery depths of Hell because I'm not wearing a bra today. Either is possible in Southport...
If you've never been to Southport, I envy you. I really do. I love living on the Gold Coast, nowhere else yells "home!" to me. Southport is a suburb of the Gold Coast, so it gets points for that. In every other way, I'd rather be in Maryborough, I really would. At least in Maryborough you get a warning before you get stabbed; they at least yell "Oi! Skank!" or something. In Southport the stabbing is always a surprise.
I go walking here at night sometimes, just me. I fidget so much at home that it's the only thing that keeps me remotely sane. I try to talk to someone on the phone the whole time I'm out. I put my little ear bud thingies in, then it looks like I'm really enjoying a conversation with myself and all the crazy people leave me alone because I've out-crazied them (not really that difficult, when you're me).
I moved down to the Gold Coast to live somewhere near Coolangatta, and I've ended up in Southport. People who know the Gold Coast will know what an anti-climax that is, for everyone else, that's why God made Google.
Southport is 2 kilometres away from Surfers Paradise. (Hooray!) No. You're not listening. Southport is TWO THOUSAND METRES away from Surfers Paradise (oh...). Not much until you have to take a bus. Have you noticed how much buses cost!? The answer is quite a lot indeed. If I'm getting on a bus, I'd rather go all the way to Coolangatta...
... So I'm sitting, listening politely to this Christian man, as he tells me how much he hopes the Final Judgement comes soon, because he just can't wait to be beheaded. I get up, walk away quite fast and go hide in the sex shop where it's safe. I ask the girl behind the counter if she knows why there's so many mad Christians about today. She doesn't know either. I peer out the doorway to see if that particular guy is gone yet. He is. I go buy hot chocolate. That's my life. Yep. That's all there is.

Signed with love,
The Pretty Kitty.

Not sure if I'm lonely, or just alone.

But I am in love with a T-shirt. A particular design of "Guns 'n' Roses" band tee, to be more specific. Every time I'm over at the shopping centre I go in the shop where I know (or hope!) I'll find it. I move all the 'smalls' to the back of the rack and stare longingly. If someone wants to lend me $10 so my true love and I can finally be together, much appreciated...
I go visit my love, the T-shirt, about twice per week. Whenever I have some spare change and a coupon, I take myself out for a treat. I'm a good date, I buy me all kinds of things. I buy me hot chocolate, waffles, pancakes or pretty much anything else within the limited budget. I've gotten used to sitting by myself in the food court now. I don't believe I'm actually going to admit this in a public forum, but I don't have any friends my own age in the same city as me. Talking isn't my strong point, and note passing isn't really an accepted form of communication after high school. I spend this time by myself doing a spot of people watching, and catching up on important activities like text-stalking my mates from all over, and fantasising about the day I finally have $10 spare, and can be united with my truest love, the T-shirt.

Signed with love,
The Pretty Kitty.

Some prople are just plain odd.

Seriously.
I felt a sudden urge today to put on my blogging shoes and tell you all about someone I almost worked with. It will explain itself, promise!
One of my many, many hats is that of a freelance photographic model. Great, when people need one of those. Less great when they don't. I posted an ad on a website to try to find people who did.
One person who answered my ad was Fishface. His first message to me was "Hi! I'm a model too but I've just started out as a photographer. I'm looking for models. Would you like to meet up next week, just for a chat?" Seems fine so far. We arranged a time, and a public meeting place, with a plan to go for coffee.
The day we were meant to meet, I got a text message an hour before "Where are you? I'm already here" It's an hour earlier than we're meant to be meeting, but I figure I'll do a rush job to get ready, I can be there in half an hour. I tell him this. The reply: "I'm here now" Very good. Do you know any big-boy words?
I get dressed (OK, so I was still in my nightie at midday) brush my hair and walk down town as fast as my unusually long legs can carry me. During this process I get three more messages from Fishface, "Where are you? I'm already here" I send replies, quiet, calm, and complete with over-use of smiley faces, "20 mins. :-)", "10 mins. :-)", "I'm on my way, OK!?! :-)"... I arrive, and find Fishface, looking disheveled and in the process of texting me again.
"G'day, I'm Blossy." I say, nice as pie (nice as nice pie, not like, kidney and brain pie) "Yeah, fuck, wow, hi!" Says Fishface. Great start. We begin to walk towards the cafe. He starts scratching his head like he has nits. Him: "So, um, you're a model?" Me: Yes. "Do you do much work?" Not as much as I'd like, but every few weeks I have a shoot "Fuck. Um... Would it be rude if I bailed? This is too weird. I gotta go. I gotta go home." Sure honey. Whatever. And I've never seen anyone scamper off faster. That night, I check my emails. A message from Fishface: "Sorry about today, but I thought you were a cop and I was going to be arrested"
I replied: "OK. I've never had that before. Wanna try again?" We decided to meet up again, and then go to his studio for a photo shoot. He then asks me questions like "Do you shave your legs?" Well, when I have a shoot I do. Mostly. I tell him I do, anyway. He asks me not to. He tells me he wants to do a transgender shoot with me, because I have "very masculine features"!!!!! I tell him where he can stick this idea. He asks if I've ever needed to do a poo during a shoot. I ask what the fuck this has to do with anything ever and he says it's important and I have to answer. I stop responding to his text messages and emails.
After a month or so, Fishface saw some pictures of me on the international-computer-webby thing. He retracts his comment about my "masculine" features, but asks if I've ever considered breast implants, informing me that sex workers can claim them back on tax, so they'd end up free, anyway. I try not to answer, but can't help it. I tell him "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH MY BODY AS IT IS! I HAVE NEVER CONSIDERED GETTING IT SURGICALLY MUTILATED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" just like that, but in bold and with more exclamation marks. He didn't answer.
Months pass again, and he calls me. "I can't talk." I say. "I'm at work in a childcare centre. I need to devote my full attention to what I'm doing." It was true. "I wanna talk to you about a shoot." he says. "Can you meet me in Surfers Paradise on your way home, tonight?"
"OK, but now I've really got to go!"
I check my phone on my lunch break. Five messages from Fishface, "Are you off work yet?" "Where are you?" and three times, "text me when you're on the bus, ok?"
I text when I'm on the bus. "On the bus. Will be about 50 mins. :-)"
Him: Where are you?
Me: Currumbin. 50 mins.
Where are you?
Palm Beach. 45 mins.

He seriously text me every five minutes. If I didn't answer, he called me. "I'm on the fucking bus, mate! I'm not sure when I'll get there, I can't control it!"
I got to Surfers Paradise, and text him to say I was finally off the bus. He sent back an abusive message accusing me of promising to get off the bus, but then staying on the bus. I didn't answer. He called me.
I told him I was standing in Surfers, waiting for him right then. He didn't believe me. After fifteen minutes I convinced him I really was in Surfers.
Now he asked me if I had enough money for a drink for me AND one for him. "Honey," I begin, "I've got my bus fare for tomorrow, plus about four dollars!" He then abuses me again, saying that since I said yes to the meeting, it's my responsibility to have enough money for a drink for both of us, and not to waste his time, he even threw in the line, "I may look like mister money bags, but I'm not, I'm broke this week and you're supposed to buy me a drink!" I told him to go fuck himself and hung up. I got on the next bus home. When I got home I emailed the prick. I told him that my average weekly expenditure was $270, my income varied depending on modelling opportunities, but had a tendency to be nothing. I told him to pull his head out of his arse, and I summed everything up with "Never contact me again, you demoralizing piece of shit!"

So that's what's been on my mind. :-)
Signed with Love,
The Pretty Kitty.

Dear Internet...

...I do not suffer from erectile dysfunction (I usually find it quite amusing), but thank you for asking.

...I am quite happy with my current penis size, but because of you I know what to do if that ever changes.

...I do not wish to gamble from my own home unless you give me free money to do so.

...Most importantly, when people try to put money INTO my bank account, YOU LET THEM!!!!!

Signed with something,
The Pretty Kitty.

My Rules To Live By

Previously I've only shared these rules with people closest to me. But that's not enough, because so many people seem to really need them. So here they are. Rules to live by as thought up by the Pretty Kitty when she was between the ages of 12 and 22:

1. Don't spend money that doesn't need to be spent
   In other words, if you're already scratching to get by, don't buy things just for the sake of having them. I still don't have an iPod and I'm doing fine. I can't, however live without music, so when my Walkman finally died about a month ago, I went straight down to Kmart and bought a CD/cassette player. This is money that did need to be spent, to stop the Kitty climbing the walls.
2. Don't send things to landfill which don't need to go
   This is actually my favourite. I made this rule while watching my housemates clean out their wardrobes. With other people in the house who would have loved the almost new things they were throwing away and two op shops within an easy walk of the house, they were just throwing their 'old' things in the bin, purely because they had new things. I found this absolutely appalling, and took it upon myself to remove as many things as possible from the rubbish as quickly as possible, the things I didn't want then found their way to the op shop. The other thing that people seem really bad at is recycling. If you don't recycle, don't complain when the world runs out of EVERYTHING! Also, you may think you're recycling simply by putting things in your recycling bin, but here's why you're not: Food is not recyclable. If you throw things in you recycling bin without washing them out first, they will still end up in landfill. The people at the recycling plant are not there to wash out your milk cartons, bottles and jars. Clean, recyclable materials are sorted and recycled. Containers that still have bits of food in them are allowed to slip right past and go into the rubbish. Also, if you put your recycling into plastic bags before you put it in your recycling bin, it goes to landfill. Recycling is sorted on a conveyor belt. They do not have the time to undo you stupid knots or empty plastic bags.
   So basically, if you can think of another use for something, employ it. Cracked plastic box could be covered, strengthened with cardboard and used for a foot stool, for example.
3. Don't judge what you don't know.
   What you think is rudeness may simply be shyness, what you call stupidity may just be ignorance. You don't know anybody's background unless they tell you. A girl wearing a short skirt is probably just feeling the heat, today; that quiet old gent at the bus stop can probably teach you a few things, if you don't dismiss him as just another old man.
4. Every situation is meant to teach you something.
   In other words, The slow elderly lady in the queue in front of you, the one who feels the need to tell the cashier her life story, is meant to teach you patience. Your teenage daughter turning up with a boyfriend from a background you never realised you didn't approve of is meant to teach you acceptance. Try to find the lesson in every situation.
5. Never break a promise
   This is a simple one. If you say you're going to call, call. If you say you're going to be somewhere, be somewhere. It's ok to just plain forget, so long as you make it up later.
6. Don't ever have too many rules.
   There are more, but revealing them all at once may cancel out rule #6...

Signed with love,

The Pretty Kitty.