Category Archives: about things that are not fun

Unicorns VS Spam in a fight for World Domination

I just tried to reply to a Spam email for fun, but Yahoo wouldn’t let me, so here is an open email to all spammy people. (When I wrote ‘spammy’ it just autocorrected to ‘spumy’. That’s fucking awesome. What the fuck is a ‘spumy’?!)

From: Jorge Alberto Betancourt Delgadillo <>

Dear friend:
I am sorry to disturb you!
We are a big Retail and wholesale company who mainly sell electrical products,We can supply best service and reasonable price with high quality. To celebrate the coming of Christmas, thanks to new and existing customers for their support and love!
company will  organize large-scale Discount activity!
All registered users can enjoy VIP price.
All the goods price provide VIP price for you!
Come on Friends, choose your favorite!  selected products into gift for your family, your friends, your Beloved people!
There are a lot of surprises! We would like to give a surprise to you and your friends!
Do not waiting!  Contact Us!  Just do it!
Note: limited number , limited time
web site: www.
Take good care of yourself.^o^..

My reply:

Dear Jorge

Thanks for your email about electrical products. As you mentioned the ‘coming of Christmas’, I can only assume that one of your electrical products is a time machine. I’m pretty excited about this, as I have always wanted a time machine.

Are you able to tell me exactly what models you have in stock, and how much they are with the Christmas discount? I’m particularly interested in London during the Georgian era, so don’t worry about models that only have a 100-year limit each way in time.

Thanks so much in advance, and I hope you enjoy this picture of a unicorn that I have attached.


I don’t give a shit about your fucking electrical products. xox

PS: Please note that I do not actually own this picture of a unicorn. I Googled-Imaged it.

PPS: I chose this picture as it reminded me of a My Little Pony, and I love My Little Ponies.

I’M ALIVE! and incidentally, so is the man next door

Haven’t had internet in forever because Telstra are like pigeons. Useless and makes me want to vomit.

So the other day, when I’m all stressy and gross because of my lack of internet and the fights I’m having with Telstra and racking up an astronomical phone bill, I hear what can only be the sound of a smoke alarm battery dying.

We’ve all heard it. That infernal ‘beep’ every 30 seconds that wiggles inside your head and makes you want to stick your head in an oven.

I knew it definitely wasn’t mine because I had taken the battery out when I first moved in which is probably illegal but then isn’t suicide in some cases? So this beeping was Definitely not in my house. But because I live in a stupid unit, I can hear stupid everything from my stupid neighbours. And yes, they are all stupid. And all seem to have about 100 children each.

So I spend the next 20 minutes trying to find the source of the beeping by standing outside each unit one by one, listening, and looking really dodgy.  I finally track it down to the little old man two units down who hated on my scones.

So I knock on his door and say in my best Neighbour Voice, (it’s very mature and kinda perky) ‘hi there! Sorry to bother you, but I think your smoke alarm is running out of battery! I can hear the beeping!’

Little Scone Hating Man flatly refuses to believe it’s his alarm. Even though as I’m being all perky and neirbourly I can actaully see the infernal thing flashing and beeping away on the ceiling above his head. He refuses to believe this because he is deaf and he can’t hear it.

Him: Well now, I don’t think it’s mine. I can’t hear anything.

Me: I’m fairly certain it is yours. I can see it flashing. Oh, yes, and it just beeped again.

Him: No, didn’t hear it.

Me: Lucky you!

Him: I don’t think you would be able to hear it from your house, if I can’t hear it from mine.

Me: I think you’re just going to have to trust me on this one. I can hear it. Every 30 seconds. In fact, in about 7 seconds I’m going to hear it again.


Then he tells me that even if it is his, there’s nothing he can do about it until Thursday when his daughter comes to visit because he is much too Old and Frail to go hunting after beeping noises.

So that’s how I ended up on a chair with a broom whacking at the damn thing trying to bring it down. After I while, I did. It fell off the ceiling and bounced on the floor, bouncing the battery out of it. Little Old Scone Hating Man stares accusingly up at me.


And THEN, he picks up the battery and tries to jam it back in.

And he manages to do this in such a way, I can’t get the battery out again without banging it against my knee and swearing while Scone Hater looks at me disapprovingly and starts talking about his hearing aid battery and how batteries are delicate and you shouldn’t ‘bang them about’.

But eventually, mission accomplished. Until I tell my mother this story and she gets all, ‘what if there is a fire now? and the little old man dies?’ So I explained to her it wouldn’t have made a particle of difference because clearly he wouldn’t have heard the alarm go off anyway. And it’s past Thursday now so I am telling myself the daughter arrived and re-batterised the damn thing. And I’ve just discovered I didn’t invent the word ‘re-batterised’ because when I wrote it just now, no red squiggly line came to tell me it wasn’t a real word. But it does when I just write ‘batterised.’ WHO KNEW?

Don’t cheat on your hairdresser. You will look stupid.

When I first started Sophie, I wrote about a wonderful hair salon experience I had at Mieka Hairdressing.

So why I cheated on my hairdresser today is something I’m still asking myself. That’s right. I cheated. I went to another hair salon near where I now live. Don’t.Go.There. Ever. I now look like I have a small stripy cat on my head. The type of cat that gets left behind at the pet shop because it’s so ugly and not as cute as the other little cats and then before you know it the little cat is an actual cat and it gets sent off to the cat farm where they kill it, skin it, and then send the fur to hairdressers to use as a colour swatch to show unsuspecting people who are paying a retarded amount of money to get their hair dyed.

That last sentence got a little bit too creative, because I wasn’t shown a colour swatch of stripy cat like hair, I was shown a picture of a blonde bombshell and then I was told I would look Exactly Like The Blonde Bombshell In The Picture and I was all happy and smiley and then somehow when they were mixing the colours out the back, that’s when they obviously got confused and mixed the stripy cat colour.

Then they put it on my head.

So, naturally, as they were drying my hair and it was dawning on me that my hair did not, in fact, look blonde or bombshelly, I was a bit um… huh. It looks a bit… um.

And they’re all oooohing and aaaahing and calling me ‘babe’ (for anyone who read the other post on hairdressers, you know I hate this) and saying stupid crap like ‘you look so fierce!’ Well of course I do. I look like I should have claws. And possibly fangs. And like I should be swapped with a zoo in Japan to mate with their male stripy animal and then have a baby animal that will be put in a special exhibit and the public will get to name the baby animal and they’ll choose a stupid name that people like because it sounds kinda African and they can pretend the zoo is actually a scene from The Lion King.

So I go home. And I look at my head in the mirror. And I’m like, yes, this is all stupid. So I do the grown up thing and call and say yeeeeah, hiiiiiiii, looooook… I got home, and I’ve had another look at my hair and I’m not entirely happy with it-

‘What’s wrong with it.’ (I omitted the question mark there on purpose. It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.)

‘Well, I think it’s a little too dark. And I’m afraid the ends are a little… blocky.’

‘You mean stripy.’

‘Well. Yes.’

‘Look. I just talked to Bonnie, (who the frack is Bonnie??) and she agrees that I am always really careful with my foils and I never do a stripy colour.’

Well that’s just great. Bonnie doesn’t have a cat on her head, does she? Well, she might have for all I know. I still have no idea who Bonnie is. And then stupid hairdresser girl tells me that she can’t do anything about it because if she puts any more colour in my hair it will damage it too much. So apparently I’m supposed to either have damaged hair, or a zoo animal on my head. Well isn’t that just keen. She offers to have a look at it ‘next week sometime’ if I’m still unhappy but she is very doubtful she can do anything with it. But she could try ‘if I want’.

No. I do not want. I don’t want you anywhere near my head again you masochistic cow.

So I’ve called the lovely Sarah at Mieka who has booked me in on Tuesday to fix me. I should never have cheated in the first place. I will go in wailing with apologies and love and maybe she’ll give me a free treatment or something. Doubtful, because this is my fault and I cheated on her, not the other way round. But I know she will fix me.

I still have to live through three days of having stupid hair though.

People are weird and creepy.

Some time I ago posted this, commenting on the fact that weird tags generate blog hits when weird people look for weird things.

I don’t think I’ve seen more charming proof of this then when I looked at my stats today and saw that someone had been led straight to Sophie after searching for this little gem:


My rolling is better then your rolling. Get your hand off my shoulder.

The other day I was meeting George and I was running late because I had spent far too long in my little sister’s shop looking at pretty clothes that I couldn’t afford to buy but bought anyway.

So I’m walking briskly down Chapel St and I’m at the corner of Chaps and High, happily dragging on some sweet, sweet nicotine and waiting for the lights to change when a man approaches me and asks if he can roll himself a cigarette when we get to the other side.

Well no, I say, I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry.

He looks a bit taken aback at my refusal and says, come on man, it’ll only take 3 minutes.

At this point I think to myself, 3 minutes? are you serious? You suck at rolling cigarettes you stupid wannabe roller wanker, I can roll a cigarette in under 20 seconds while walking and a strong wind is blowing and it’s raining and I’m toting an inside out umbrella and I know this because I’ve been TIMED and that’s not even my PB and you’re telling me to hover on the other side of the street while I wait as you dip your grubby who knows where they’ve been fingers in my tobacco for three whole minutes?


But I smile politely, and say, no, look, I’m really sorry, but indeed I am in a big hurry and really have to bolt down this street as soon as the lights change.

He then puts his hand on my shoulder. I barely repress a shudder. In fact I don’t repress it at all and shudder quite obviously. He says, with what I think he believes to be a winning smile, that he would really appreciate it.

I remove his hand and tell him, again politely, that I’m afraid I can’t oblige.

The lights are still red.

It’s at this point I realise how hard it is to look like you’re in a hurry when you’re standing still. So I try to overcompensate with lots of heavy sighing, obsessive pedestrian light button pushing, clicking of my tongue, and shifting my weight from leg to leg and looking, no doubt, like someone who really, really needed to wee and this whole time this man is staring at me with a sulky look on his face.

I’ve realised that if I was a non-smoker, scabby people bothering me would be cut down by half. I would still be accosted by junkies asking for 50c so they can get back to their kids in Frankston though.

Meet me in the ring Political Correctness, I’ll take you down biatch

A little old lady used to live in my house. I know this because the bathroom and toilet are absolutely riddled with disability aids. You know those metal bars that are in the disabled toilets to hang on to. Well there’s one in my bath, my toilet, and my shower. This is need to know information. Because the other day I was in a Super Hurry to meet George and I had about 17 seconds to have a shower and catch a train.

As everyone knows you should never hurry in the shower because that means either a) you murder a member of the animal kingdom, or b) you drop the soap. It’s like a rule that you drop the soap in the shower when you’re in a hurry.

So I drop the soap and I’m like fuck, only 13 seconds to catch the train now and I bend down to pick it up and on my way back up from bending down, I manage to straighten up into the disability bar and my head and the disability bar join as one in a real fuck-oh-fuck-you-mother-fucking-cunt-of-a-disability-bar-i-fucking-hate-you kinda way. I hit it so hard that it clanged and the noise reverberated around my bathroom in a somewhat satisfying way because it justified the pain that was shooting through my brain and making me feel like I had a bar shaped dent in my head.

Now here is my query: Who the fuck disables themselves on a disability bar? That’s like falling over a wheelchair and breaking both your legs. Fuck you Alanis Morissette. I take your stupid song and raise you a bar shaped dent in my head.

These examples look suspiciously plastic to me. Well my ones are made from good old fashioned mined metal materials.


I have since Googled ‘disability aid’ and apparently I’m supposed to say ‘mobility aid’. Well that’s stupid. The whole point is to aid non-mobile people, not shove it in their faces. “Would you like a mobility aid? Yes, that’s right, it’s designed specifically for people like you who aren’t mobile, we just put the word ‘mobile’ in the name to make you feel like shit because no one uses the word ‘disability’ anymore. Want me to say it again? Moooobiiiilleeee. Sounds good don’t it? JEALOUS?” Yeah, thanks asshole. That’s like the retards who put an ‘s’ in the word ‘lisp’. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? “I have a lithp.” That’s just MEAN. And did I just say ‘retard’? BITE ME.

How Murders Happen—My Story (nb: did not get murdered, or murder anyone)


I was on a train destined for Thornbury. What happened in the first five minutes of finding my seat can best be illustrated by the three texts below that I sent to George in quick succession, in response to his text asking where I was:

I’m on the stupid train waiting for it to leave the station at flinders! And trying to avoid eye contact with the creepy man sitting opposite me!



Then this happened:

Omg omg omg he just came over!!! Ew ew ew he’s talking to meeeee!!! Epping train wants to kill me!!! He’s asking me if I’m texting my friend and wants to pass on a message. I don’t know what it is yet.

At that point, two young guys, maybe late teens, got on the train. They took in my desperate situation at a glance and promptly started smirking. This set off the worst case of giggling hysteria I’ve ever had.

I will never know what message Crazy Man wanted to pass on to George because at that point I was shaking with laughter with tears streaming down my face and gasping, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I. Can’t. Talk!’ while he looked at me with crazy eyes asking for the forth time where I’m heading to. Then he says:

Don’t laugh at me.

O.M.G. I’m dead. I’M DEAD. My youthful protectors vanish at Clifton Hill. I start mumbling apologies interspersed with hiccups.

Then he offered to drive me to Thornbury if I alighted with him at the next station.


This is how dead bodies in ditches happen my friends.