Category Archives: Uncategorized

I have been trumped by an 8-year-old. Good on him.

It was raining like hell, if hell rains at all.

Grade Three student.

Yeah, that’s right, GRADE THREE! A friend of mine is a primary school teacher and was correcting workbooks when she came across that gem of a sentence and shared it with me. Beautiful.

I am stunted by the genius of a grade three boy. So I think it’s best if I just smoke a cigarette, eat a chocolate teddy bear biscuit, smoke a cigarette, and go to bed. In that order.

And yes, I did mean to write ‘smoke a cigarette’ twice.


This post was orginally a little longer. There was a lengthy paragraph exclusively about the correct use of grammar, and inviting readers to answer my grammar queary.

My sister commented. THE ANSWER WAS SO OBVIOUS THAT I COULDN’T KEEP MY QUESTION UP IN THE PUBLIC EYE. It was too, too humiliating. At first I thought I would publically put my hands up and say yes, look how silly I am, laugh with me! But there would be no laughing with me. There would be a lot of laughing at me. And so it had to go, and the comment with it.

So I would like to give a shout out to my sister for proving that you can dye your hair as much as you want. But once a blonde, always a blonde.

Smoking Boy in a poignant moment of self-assessment

Saturday 1st July 2000

Sorry I didn’t write last night. I went straight to sleep. I was watching Steel Magnolias -> Great Movie (chick-flick).

My sister went to Horsham yesterday with Nan & a friend. Mum & I got out some videos today while Dad was at the footie with Kyle & Jack. Today I watched House on Haunted Hill (yeah, ALRIGHT movie) and Guarding Tess (yeah, ABSOLUTELY EXCELENT movie)!

Come on Smoking Boy, this is boring. Speed it up a little.

No smoking today.

And he’s back.

My lighter ran out which is pretty dodgey. I got some matches so it’s alright but I still need to get a lighter. I had no time and no place to smoke today. Mum & dad went out but I didn’t have enough time.

Time was a big deal for the smoking teen. Especially if you had very limited time before you got picked up by a parent, or said parent was coming home from a day/night out. You have to cover the lingering smell somehow. Here are some handy tips for the time pressed smoking teen to cover the tobacco flavour:

Impulse deodorant, or Lynx, is your friend. Keep it handy.

Hand washing. Use plenty of soap. Or, if you’re getting picked up by a parent from somewhere and there’s no soap available, picking a fragrant flower and rubbing the petals with your smoking hand works wonders.

The ‘jumper swap’. This is a must. If you’re getting picked up from somewhere that doesn’t have your wardrobe in the immediate vicinity, keep a freshly laundered spare jumper in your bag you can put on. If they comment on the change of attire, you can either claim spillage, or the reverse psychology tactic, which goes something like ‘yeah, Mary was smoking and made my jumper stink. It was totally gross.’ This excuse is for experienced smokers only, but is a total conversation stopper if you can pull it off.

Chewy. Tic tacs. Teeth brushing. None will work as well as the sweet smell of Blistex. Don’t eat it though. Cos it’s gross.

I feel it’s my duty to tell you though that helpful these methods may be, they are nothing against the bloodhound noses of parents. So if you still get caught, don’t blame me.

Back to Smoking Boy, in truly the most beautiful adolescent literary extract it has been my privilege to read:

My life is excellent. The following is a list of everything that is great at the moment:
•    My wardrobe – looks & feels
•    My love life – Linda = gone, out of it / looking for someone new
•    My friendships – Jack is great / Dave back as best friend
•    My family life – my sister gone for a week / no hassles from olds
•    My school life – no school at the moment
•    My bedroom – looks & feels

I have no words to express my love for the above sentences. None.

The only thing not going really well is my financial situation. I need a job or at least some money. I have to buy a new lighter and some smokes when I can.

I also need to get my band career up and running. I mean, my teacher said my technique was excellent and I was really good so now I should apply that to getting gigs and stuff.

Well, I suppose I should get some sleep. Pete said he might have smokes tomorrow – not sure – he said he might. Alrighty then –

Smoking Boy is an awesome name for a band.

Playing with paper dollies will Never, Ever, stop being fun.

I just bought a really pretty new printer/scanner and I’ve been having lots of fun scanning my vintage paper dollies. These were given to me by my mother when I was little, and they were given to her by her godmother when she was little. And then my mother’s godmother got them when she was a little girl way back when.

Way back when was when my Grandma was also a little girl so that would have been in the 1920s. I might put the Wikipedia thingy here [cite needed] cos I don’t actually know when my mother’s godmother got them. Let’s just say the ’20s for the sake of it and my mother can confirm this at a later time.

So these dollies have been played with for something like 90 years or thereabouts, and I must say that three generations of little girls have taken pretty spectacular care of them.

Here are some of them for your viewing pleasure. (They really are very pretty and fun.)

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:


The Return of Smoking Boy, laughing and sharing one Peter Jackson at a time.

The other day I was talking with my mother who remarked on the fact she hadn’t seen an update on my blog lately. Then she said, ‘I really want to know what Smoking Boy is up to’, like he was some kind of superhero. Which would be totally awesome.

So here is the latest entry from Smoking Boy, illustrated by this insanely appropriate picture I found courtesy of Google Images and Motivated Posters.

29th June 2000

Wow! The last two days have bean heaven and hell for me. I got  lighter off Dave yesterday and smoked heaps. The first morning break I had 2 PJ’s, ate a small Mars Bar and then lit up again. I had to give half away to Tom cause I couldn’t last.

Trouble is brewing for Smoking Boy. His very powers seem to be acting as a kryptonite against him.

Last night Dave stayed over and we smoked out the window. The room smelt so bad in the morning. Mum & Dad seem like they know something but I’m not sure. I think it’s just Mum being really suspicious.

No shit Smoking Boy. You smoked out a window, room smelt like smoke, Mum is suspicious. It’s a fairly linear cause and effect equation.

I felt SO sick after last night. We had approximately 20 mins sleep. Dave smoked about eight and I had four or five. He is so… grouse (for need of a better word). We have so much fun together – when we play or not.

Smoking Boy is totally getting out-smoked by his side kick Band Boy and he can’t even tell. Smoking Boy needs to sharpen up.

Melanie rang tonight and “apparently” she’s started smoking. I believe it but she has no reason to – not that I do – hee hee! It’d be great if we all go see a movie and I’ve got my own smokes. I wouldn’t have to scab off Lara or Nick. Fun!

A new Superhero in town! SMOKING GIRL! Check out Smoking Boy judging her try hard smoking efforts. Cos he’s a total smoking veteran now, and she’s trying to superhero it up on his turf and shit.

Tomorrow is the last day of band. I’m gonna miss everyone until I see them again soon. I’ll miss everything – the playing, the smoking, the talking, laughing, etc.

This is almost as fun as ‘we play, we smoke, we share…’. In fact, possibly even more fun.

Well, I suppose I should sleep ‘cause I’ve got a pretty big day tomorrow.

Well, g’night!

Goodnight Smoking Boy! Until your next rebellious teen adventure!

I moved to St Kilda East so I could eat good bagels again.

Some friends of mine are going to New York tomorrow for a holiday. It is very good of me not to hate them because I’m actually vomiting in my mouth a little bit from jealousy.

This jealousy lead me to a fit of nostalgia and I’ve spent the last hour obsessively looking at photos and re-reading all the emails I sent back home when I lived in NY in 2006. And so I thought I would share some of the magical moments I wrote home about.

Getting the suitcase up my the five flights of stairs to my new apartment was fun. What was even funner was watching Julie – the girl who’s room I’m staying in – throw her even larger suitcase down these stairs after smoking some very potent marijuana, and then realising half way down the stairs that she has to go through customs. Apparently the sniffer dogs were going to attack her. Hilarious. Meanwhile, throughout these thoughts, her suitcase is falling down on it’s own accord making one hell of a noise. I explain that I have to deal with her neighbours now, so maybe we better catch it, but she replies: ‘if the noise bothers them they shouldn’t live in New York. Fuckers.’

On my first night here I managed to drop a glass and break it, walk in it, then have to fish out a bit of glass from my foot with tweezers, and then accidentally press a button on the TV so now all of the channels are static. I now have to wait for my roommate to come home from Miami so she can fix it.


Okay so I think I’m getting fat, because I’ve been wearing my tight tight jeans all day and they were beginning to hurt. Not just hurt – completely cane my hip. I’m walking down Lexington thinking, I can’t believe it. I AM FAT ALREADY! My jeans have never hurt me before in my life! Well no more then usual anyway. And so I currently have a piece of tissue wedged between my jeans and my hip. It’s actually not that comfortable, or in fact effective.

This was the view from my window.

So I’m out this evening at some random bar in the East Village. I’m out with the German girls who I like to call collectively ‘Germany’ and Rachel. I’m sitting in a little booth with Heika (a German – can you tell?) and this crazy very, very odd looking guy who could have been aged anywhere between 30 and 100, starts giving what I can only call a lap dance, but not in our laps. We had to keep ducking so he’s flailing arms wouldn’t hit us as he danced, completely mute, for about 45 minutes in this crazy ghetto style that would not look out of place in a music video had he not looked like Morgan Freeman’s love child gone to seed. He was also about 100 kilos. A young man named Tim then decided to come to our rescue. After giving the kind of shield only a weedy, pasty, white boy can give from a crazy dancing man, Tim decides to show off:

Tim: you’re from Australia!!

Me: Yes.

Tim: I just met a guy from Australia in the toilet! Do you know him?

Me: Um… yeah sure. Australia’s really small. We know everybody.

Tim: I know! It’s like tiny!


Can someone please explain this. All over the subway carriages are signs that say that in case of an emergency (and they list helpful examples of what that emergency might be, i.e.: fire, someone trying to kill you, etc) please DO NOT pull the emergency cord, but ask for assistance from a subway employee. Now this does not make sense to me. Number one: why would they have an emergency cord if you’re not allowed to pull it? and two: if there was an emergency, how in the world are you supposed to alert an employee? It is not as though they are sitting in the carriage with you. They are in the front of the train driving the damn thing. And if you can delay death until the next stop is reached, can’t you just get off and run away? But what if you can’t? WHAT IS THE EMERGENCY CORD THERE FOR AND WHAT ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO DO IF YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO PULL IT? I am sooo confused. Let’s say there is a man trying to kill you, are you seriously going to think, hmm, I am NOT ALLOWED to stop this train, I am UNABLE to alert anyone because no one else is here except crazy man and myself, so do you just keep him talking until you reach the next stop, and then stick your head out, yell help, and hope someone can hear you? So I am very much hoping I do not run into an emergency, because I’m honestly not sure how I would deal with it without breaking the rules.

My beautiful apartment building on E 9th St between 1st and 2nd.

The other night I go to meet Jess in SoHo. To do this I can take the N, R, or W train. MAH HA HA! They LIED! So I’m on the subway – it’s like two stops from Union Square to Prince St and I’m going la la la, hmmm, this is taking longer then it usually does and then all of a sudden I’m in Canal St, which is about four blocks down from Prince. I do not know this however, because I haven’t lived here for very long and they lied to me about where this was supposed to be going to anyway. So then I speak to some random people who just say, get on THIS train, it will take you to Spring St, leave the station at THIS exit and then you just walk straight ahead for like two seconds and you hit Prince. Coool. So I do that. Walk out the exit they said, walk for two seconds… a few more seconds… and all of a sudden I’m at The Bowery. Now the Bowery is a mother of a long street, WHO KNOWS where I came out? I sure as hell didn’t and it was dark which made me even more confused. I’m thinking, I am probably about 2 seconds away but who knows in which direction those 2 seconds are. I’m running late now, screw it, I’ll just jump in a cab. So I do. Then I realise I have exactly $6 and I don’t know where I am and there’s that whole crazy tipping thing they’ve got here and I’m like, this is sooo fun, I’m about to be beaten up by a cab driver somewhere because I only have $6 and for all I know Prince and Broadway are about a squillion miles away. It wasn’t. Prince and Broadway was $4.20 away, the cab driver is looking at me like I’m the laziest person in the world and I was just so happy I gave him the $6 and said THANK YOU!

I miss New York. It was really fun.

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.