Doble Nacho

I’m lacking in inspiration lately, which is why my posts have been shorter and more likely to like, not exist at all for a given date. It’s been a hell of a year and so much has happened but right now, during this unique moment in space and time, all I’m doing is waiting: waiting for payday, waiting for my boss to get back, waiting for my surgery, waiting. It is not a natural state for me to be in, and it eats at the core of me; I live my life fast and rigidly, I plan out my days to keep them as full and as useful and as incredible as possible, but I do not have that luxury at the moment. I have been forced into stasis, and I hate it. This probably sounds like the ultimate in first world problems to some people out there, but when you’re as obnoxiously goal-orientated as I am it is like your own personal hell.

But whatever. It is at least payday tomorrow, and I intend to make a vegetarian nacho mountain like I tried to last week (bought two packets of chips, forgot salsa, sad story), and maybe I might even convince The Dale to make me some nachos as well so I can like, double nacho the day. Payday is also cheat day (obviously), so I’ll probably buy some lollies too, and if I am feeling exhausted enough I might even try an iced coffee. I don’t drink iced coffee often, most of the generic varieties available to me taste terrible and overly sweet, but sometimes I get a craving, you know? I alway regret caving to said cravings afterward, but as long as it lasts the craving is real. I have been so good at my diet this week anyway, I have worked out every day I intended to and not bought pizza at all and kept to small healthy meals, and everything has been great. I feel energised, and refreshed, full of vim and vigour and etc and what-have-you. I feel like I have earned shitty iced coffee and double nachos. It is my right as a human and a woman and an alleged adult damn it! Do not even dare to try and deny me.

I have been reading a book called Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, and it is fantastic and beautiful and tragic and thought-provoking all at once. I’m gonna attempt to scratch out a review when it’s done, but so far it has made my heart break at least few times and also made me totally reconsider how I want to be disposed of when I die. I used to be all about the cremation, like, all cremation all the time, but I’m leaning more and more towards a possible green burial because of this book (a green burial being a burial without coffin or preservatives), which tickles my hippy side deliciously and also just seems to make more sense. In any case, I will go into more detail about it when I’m finished. For now, I read.

Musings on an Information Age

The thing about the internet is that most things on it never really go away, not really, not unless the person who owns the thing in question makes a concerted effort to make that happen. There are exceptions of course – websites fold, forums disappear, blogs are deleted – but for the most part everything that has ever been online is still there, collecting dust and quietly consuming server cycles for eternity. The internet’s memory is as long and as deep as the internet itself, which is to say it is effectively limitless. Your cyber footprint will outlive you a hundred-hundred fold, unto eternity.

That said, even though something may never technically disappear, it can often become lost to you over time. This could be for any number of reasons (url changes, server moves), but the most likely one is probably the most obvious: you just forget about it. You forget about it for years and years and years until one day, over a decade from the time when the thing seemed so important to you, you remember it (or a shade of what it was, at least) out of the blue, but not nearly enough of what ‘it’ was to have any chance of ever finding it again. You know what the site was about and you know what it looked like but you don’t even know its name. You Google a few kind of general terms in the hopes of finding it but its useless, Google doesn’t search based on scent memories and even if it did, would what you remember of the place even be accurate? It probably still exists out there, even if the owner hasn’t updated it in six years, but you’ll never find it, you’ll never know. It was claimed by the deep web years ago when you weren’t looking or even thinking about it, and now it is lost to you forever.

I don’t know why I was thinking about this, but I was. It seems like a lot of people and places I used to know are lost to me now, even though we live in an age of almost endless information and disgustingly dense networks of interpersonal connections. Despite those facts we can and still are losing things, small things maybe but not inconsequential things; some of the sites I have lost and friends I have long since lost contact with consumed hours, days, weeks of my life, combined, and now they are lost to me and I have only the barest hints of recollection that they ever existed at all. I guess this has happened forever, to all humans throughout history but for it to happen today, in the Age of Information, seems obscene. It doesn’t seem like it should even be possible, and yet it is.

Historium Pizza

My protein intake has dropped through the floor over the last few months, for obvious reasons. When you cut meat out of your diet protein sources tend to become a bit leaner and harder to come by, and for that reason you have to start to looking for replacements or else your body starts assaulting you with maddening specific cravings for shit it knows has heaps of what it is looking for. If you don’t you can potentially end up with a week like I’ve just had, where you order pizza three nights in a row (or was it four?) because your body is all like “bitch get some cheese in you stat” and you’re all like “you know what you’re right, I could definitely go some fucking cheese right now” so you order pizza to fill the craving. If you think this is just a thinly veiled justification for why I ordered pizza on three nights this week (one night was calzone, it doesn’t count), you’re right. I just love pizza so much guys. Probably because I’m italian-ish, or self-destructive. Hell, why not both?

What is weird is I never had much pizza growing up, not even when I was a teenager and we lived in the guts of suburbia. When we lived in the country it was basically a non-existant thing to me, I was not entirely cognisant that a pizza was even a thing outside of old Ninja Turtles cartoons and vague memories of my early childhood in Victoria Point. When we moved to the Brisbane after the Big Custody Cluster-Fuck of 1999 dad would buy it sometimes but it was definitely a sometimes food. In fact, right up until I learned pizza could be delivered to you, hot and fresh by some poor underpaid fucker in a shitty uniform, I never ate much pizza at all. But then I did learn about pizza delivery, and I took it upon myself to eat all the pizza until I found one I liked, and news flash: I liked all of them. I became a pizza junkie; at least once a week, from the age of 20 onwards, I would order pizza. I would rotate delivery services so they wouldn’t start to think I was a total freak but they knew, of course they knew. How could they not? They were making deliveries to my place once a week, they weren’t stupid.

It kind of came to a head last year when I did some quick maths about how much money I had spent on pizza delivery and disgusted myself. I stopped getting pizza delivered for six months! But it has reared its ugly head again to make my life hell, and the cycle has begun anew. It’s still early and I would estimate that the amount of money I have spent on pizza this year is yet to breach four figures, but at the rate I’m spending, shit son…it’s gonna breach soon. It’s gonna happen. I need to stop, I have to stop, if not for my finances then for my fucking health. I worked so hard to get my weight down and this pizza addiction could blow all that effort out of the water. I must be harder, I must be better, I must be faster, I must be stronger. My waist depends on it.


I feel like I am weighed down by the combined heft of the various sins I have committed. I’m not talking like, religious sins, that would be dumb, I’m talking about little things and mean things and hurtful things, things I’ve done where I’ve inadvertently damaged someone I love, or made someone undeserving of the experience feel small. I have a sarcastic sense of humour that borders on the cruel, and a way of getting what I want regardless of the consequences, and sometimes the combination of those two toxic attributes blows up in my face and someone is left crying or nursing deep, painful emotional gashes, and it is all my fault. Those things happen, and occasionally they happen with alarming frequency, and I never forgive myself for them. I might forget briefly, but I’ll never forgive. My empathy goes both ways, out into the world and deep into my bitter black core.

I have tried in the past to curb these behaviours but it always seems to be temporary, I can’t seem to make it stick. The people surrounding me in my life allow me a lot of leeway (maybe because I’m charismatic or maybe because I have them all fooled) and no matter what happens that leeway seems to lead me right back into committing the sort of dickish acts that leave people hurt. Tolerance for my particular brand of sarcasm encourages me to keep pushing the limits of what I can get away with, again and again, day after day, until I have reached the limit and I have broken the limit and something has gone terribly wrong. I’m not saying that I hold other people to blame for me being such an arsehole, but sometimes I wish other people would hold me more accountable much sooner than they currently do. It’d be good for me, I think, as clearly I am lacking totally in the ability to hold my own dumb self accountable. Some people can do that, I have seen them do it, and it is beautiful and amazing to behold, but I am not one of those people. I’m the kind of people who will run her dumb mouth until she can’t run anymore, and then wonder at what point she ran too far. That’s me.

I try to make it up to people when I fuck up, but there is only so much making up I can do. If I can get on top of something quickly I will, I’ll apologise in person or send a genuinely remorseful text message or buy them a small gift or something. If I’m being honest the gesture is only partly one of remorse, it is also to help me feel like I’m not a complete and utter trash monster. But at the end of the day I know I am. At the end of the day, when I’m feeling down and the house is dark and everything is quiet, I know I’m as bad as people sometimes think, because everything I’ve ever done to hurt my mum or my dad or my lovers or my friends is always there, lurking, waiting to strike out and remind me how much of an unrepentant beast I am when I least expect it. I’ll never let me forget, not until the every star in the sky has winked out to nothingness, and hell, even that’s a dicey proposition. My sins and the pathos they inspire are so much a part of me that I’m not sure what I’d be without them. A shade, maybe? A ghost? Who knows.

Anyway, I’m sorry. For everything.


I use industrial levels of eyeliner, probably enough in one week to paint a house twice, and usually this is fine. The eyeliner I use is waterproof and comes in a jar that lasts three fifths of forever and goes on easy and comes off hard, so like, it’s pretty difficult for it to fuck my day in any appreciable way – unless of course I am getting threading done that day, and then well, fuck, all bets are off, aren’t they? It doesn’t happen every time, but I would estimate that probably one in three threading sessions I endure I end up walking out like I have gone three rounds with an abusive lover, because when you get threading done they make you hold your eyebrows taut, and if you hold them too long the heat of your fingers melts the eyeliner, and if you flinch because the girl threading you is an amateur it can smudge a little, and if she’s extra bad you can flinch a lot, and if that happens then well…

Guys I basically spent most of today greeting clients with eyeliner smudged all over my face and didn’t even know it. It was the best Friday ever.

© 2014 Molly Speechley