Category Archives: List-o-mania

A Post In The Key of Boxing Day

Twas the night after Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring except for the food baby, whose cries were growing steadily in intensity and pitch as the night wore on, sending shivers of guilt through anyone who heard them as they reflected on the various animals they had consumed the previous day and the extra helping of Grandma’s trifle that had seemed like an excellent idea at the time but over the course of 24 hours had twisted itself into something that tasted only of regret…

Christmas came…and are you feeling satisfied? Maybe you should call the number on that billboard that promises LONGER LASTING XMAS. Apparently it’s in a nasal delivery spray (because everyone knows that a man who uses a nasal spray during foreplay is going to have the best sex of his life).

These days the build-up to Christmas is always a drawn out affair that seems to take months (if you start counting the days from the first appearance of Christmas items in the supermarket in mid-May), only for the day in question to disappear faster than those last few slices of pork on your plate. Christmas has performance anxiety. It’s a 15-year-old boy who’s just got a girlfriend and who has been holding out for a glimpse of some boobies, only to get ‘over-excited’ at the final second and end the whole party waaaay to early.

However fleeting it is, the feeling of Christmas is the plot of the film The Purge. It’s 24 hours where diets and calorie counting are thrown out the window and everyone turns into Biggest Loser contestants on a binge and is suddenly excellent at cricket. And while this seems like Grinch-esque cynicism, I promise that it’s wrapped in tinsel and secretly believing in Santa Claus, because I love Christmas. It’s a great holiday and despite the usual grumps whining about traffic and petrol prices and commercialism , it’s a time of happiness (real or feigned) and family (real or feigned). But as with all great parties and binges there must come a ‘day-after’ and with Christmas it’s a one-two punch hangover special.

Boxing Day (besides being named after all the leftover cardboard and/or pugilism) is the warped incest baby of Christmas (because it’s not Christmas until someone mentions incest, right??). It takes many of the key aspects of Christmas and turns them on their head, and not in a hilarious sitcom way. No. Not like that at all.

4 Ways Boxing Day Will Break Your Heart And Your Christmas Spirit.

1. Eating without Consequence
Boxing Day arrives with a sad look in the mirror as the memories of wolfing down a third helping of potatoes and lamb rattle to the surface and your reflection gives you a look that says: I wasn’t even sure we could consume that much pudding. What was acceptable yesterday suddenly makes you ill today. And the justifications of ‘but everyone else was eating just as much’ do little to assuage your guilt and instead make you sound like a Nazi on trial for war crimes. This state of roast regret results in your previous New Year’s resolution of “Be happy and finish that one-act play you’re writing” become replaced with “Eat only spinach and quinoa”. Which is nowhere near as fun and involves eating a food that’s spelt like someone with no limbs fell onto a typewriter.
(Note: This is also compounded by the almost zombie-like consumption of any candies/chocolates that you were gifted yesterday until your fingers scrape bare cardboard and you think, “What’s that sound?” Sadness. That is the sound of sadness.)

2. Being Social with People
Even the craziest of cat ladies enjoys the company of actual people on Christmas Day. Swapping gifts with far-flung relatives and checking out your distant cousin’s hot foreign girlfriend. It’s all part of the fun of the day. However as the sun rises on Boxing Day morning and you decide to participate in some casual shopping or even just a coffee out in public, every single feeling of goodwill towards your fellow man is suddenly and violently replaced with a bubbling hatred that is threatening to spill out and bathe the streets in blood. Especially that woman with the pram ahead of you who has ignored the sign that says no prams and is now stuck on the escalator causing a backlog of sweaty, angry people trying to get their hands on discount perfume. It also becomes evident as you silently plot the death of everyone around you that no-one received spatial awareness for Christmas…

3. Buying Things
Some people argue that Christmas has gotten too commercialised (albeit they do this from their newly received iPhones) and yes there is an element of capitalism that has attached itself to Christmas’ green and red husk. But everyone loves it. Buying the perfect present, getting the perfect present or just getting stuff in general. It’s fun and it means I don’t have to buy any underwear for at least another year. And yet once again Boxing Day takes this m and turns it a commercialised juggernaut were the hero of the story is $anta Clau$$$ and his ‘Make It Rain-deer’. I talked briefly above about the insanity that sweeps the streets during Boxing Day sales, but it’s so absurd that it deserves its own category. The fact that some people do Boxing Day sales instead of an actual Christmas Day is also just disturbing… Basically if you’re buying a TV before the sun comes up there’s something wrong with you. The other thing about this is the idea of ‘saving money’ with these ‘great deals’. Some people queue up for hours outside a store that sells $1000 plus crystals. Why? Because there’s a discount, Duh! Great! So you only have to mortgage half the house in order to buy that giant glittering swan riding a unicorn… Although I did take advantage of them mad mad sales, because who can resist a giant red sticker saying: SALE!?

4. Being “Good” At Cricket
A proud tradition of the Australian Christmas is the annual game of backyard/beach/riverside/bush cricket. A game where the rules are simple: If you hit grandma you’re never playing again. Now I’m not very good at basically most things involving moving at a speed, catching and throwing, good use of hand-eye co-ordination and generally exerting myself BUT for one glorious day it doesn’t really matter how good you are, if you make an excellent catch that gets your uncle out…you may as well be Superman. It’s a wonderful thing. And then what happens on Boxing Day? The actual cricket. And you’re suddenly reminded of how terrible you are at hitting a ball and running back and forth. Although funnily enough the key rule is still the same: If you hit grandma you’re never playing again.

But soon Boxing Day will be over and then it will be New Year’s Eve and then 2014…and oh my god how did that happen? How did the year slip past unnoticed like that? I’m going to investigate. Here…have some leftover lamb, I know you want to.

Merry Boxing Day


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Awkwardtreed Strikes Back Again: This Thyme It’s Herb-sonal.

And like the manner of introductions employed by a certain composer from the Baroque period whenever he was forced to meet a new prostitute or fanboy: I’m Bach (COMPOSER PUNS!). After an extended absence I have returned to this blog with a vengeance, or if not a vengeance then at least a Ron Swanson-esque sense of barely suppressed rage, and some proactivity (not the kind endorsed by airbrushed celebrities). As to the reasons behind my disappearance, I wish to make two statements.

The First Statement.
Rumours of my death have been mildly exaggerated.
(Apologies to Mr. Twain).

The Second Statement.
A wizard did it.
Cast a spell, I mean.
I mean, a wizard did a spell on me.
It was a wizard and there was magic and he cast this spell and then I was all like, “No, stop you wizard!” and then he said some stuff which I didn’t understand because he was a wizard and wasn’t speaking a language I was familiar with because it was most likely a long forgotten, arcane use of verbs and synonyms no-one has spoken for at least the last 900 years but he knew those words because he is a timeless wizard of great force.
And his spell stopped me from doing stuff.
Specifically this sort of stuff.
It was the work of the notorious Wizard of Christmas Mirth and Holidays.
And his ability to intoxicate the soul with an over abundance of food and relaxation, causing the victim to struggle to function in a non-vacation mode.
But now I’m cured.
If you see this wizard, be careful because he’s a dick.
Like he has the words ‘mirth’ and ‘christmas’ in his official title, but it’s totally misleading because he’s actually a massive douchebag.
Like borrow your complete, boxset of Lost and not return it.
Or spoil the ending to that book you’d been wanting to read for ages.
Shit like that.
He should be called the Wizard of Ruining and Ugly.
But unfortunately he only appears around Christmas time, so he technically is entitled to use of the holiday in his official wizard title.
On an unrelated note I also met the Wizard of Skulls and Death and he is actually really lovely and should be called the Wizard of Tea and Friendship, but that was already taken.
It was an eventful hiatus.

Moving ever onwards. Today isn’t really an eye-opening post of deep insight, so if you came for that sort of thing I’m not really sorry because let’s be honest if you came here looking for that kind of thing you don’t really deserve an apology because…seriously. Deep insight? Here? Go find a turtle to talk to instead. Those guys are deep. Instead this is really a mission statement of sorts, which isn’t as cool as it sounds like it should be (for example no mission statements are really a stating of a secret mission, which makes sense because if you state a secret mission in a format accessible by all around you…you kind of fucked up the first part of having a secret mission). My mission statement is more of a promise of proactiveness in a public place (ALITERATION TOP SCORE!) with the intention behind it being that if I put up here what my aim is for the year then I am more inclined to follow through with it rather than back out and face the wrath of the whole Internet (wrath being an excellent word that makes you excited when you say it, try and not be excited when you say the word ‘wrath’. I dare you. It is impossible).

So what does 2013 hold for one Tom Reed: Procrastinator in Chief and Bolognaise enthusiast? Well as you may or may not have noticed I am a firm believer in the making and maintaining of lists (because what man cannot put in list form I don’t much care for), so what better way to outline my endeavours then in an excellent listed format. Not only is it easy on the eyes but it is also low in sodium and contains no traces of pandas (that can be scientifically proven).

Endeavours of Expansion (Listed In Order of Atomic Weight & Sexual Orientation).

1. Previously I attempted to talk about football in a way that wasn’t just verbose hyperbole and constant tautology, unfortunately this endeavour was thwarted by my laptop shitting itself. Now that this has been rectified (pun not intended but maybe a little), I would like to present my first expansionary idea: The second edition or rather the reboot of  An Unconventional Footy Fan. Keep an eye out for it appearing as a separate  page in the thing. Check the thing. Unless you’re a certain asshole master of sorcery. Then you can fuck right off.

2. The second endeavour (this list is painfully short actually and would probably have been better in bullet point format rather than the standard numerical, as this would have not drawn as much attention to fakt that this list is literally two items long…fuck you wizard, you put off my game) is a serial, episodic (and perhaps short-lived but let’s support it anyway) story of a young man named Jupiter Brown who’s room-mate is a hammer and who falls in love with a hurricane. Broken down that should read: Jupiter Brown’s room-mate is the human embodiment of Thor’s mighty hammer and he has fallen in love with a girl surrounded by a small storm front. WOO! So once again look to the skies (small toolbar) for the appearance of Jupiter Brown Mythsteries.

So now that my intentions have been made clear, you can return to whatever it was you were doing before I so rudely interrupted you with mah hollerin’. Have a lovely thyme.



Filed under Creative Catharsis, Life & Times Of, List-o-mania

The Importance Of Spam.

Hello again. So I didn’t post anything last week. You may or may not have noticed. Although I’m starting to think that it’s the latter, considering that my ‘readers’ appear to be mostly of the tinned, not-quite-ham variety. That is to say that every time I return to suss out my blog (yes I’m shallow and I suss out my blog to see if someone else besides my reflection, girlfriend and that mouldy sandwich that has mutated a yeast-based larynx allowing it to speak in a series of racial slurs and sexist remarks is listening to me…although my reflection has grown bored with me from time to time and temporarily absconded from it’s respective reflective surface) I experience a moment of Internet-fuelled europhoria when I see that there are 18 comments pending my approval. This europhria promptly jumps behind the wheel of mini-van, intoxicated beyond reason, and drives into a collection of trees and walls when it becomes apparent that these 18 comments are not expressions of delight or requests for more insightful commentary into the world of made up apartment monsters, but are instead ‘brilliantly’ composed hunks of spam.

Which was upsetting. For a little bit. But then I realised that maybe I shouldn’t be so disheartened by the spam. Perhaps I should take it as a compliment. Like when your younger brother imitates you as a kid and your mum’s all like: ‘Imitation is the highest form of flattery’, but I still get sued when I pretend to be Geoffrey Rush at certain functions in order to get free shit and accolades (even though we look nothing alike and he is an actor of the highest calibre and I’m just drunk and trying to score free cider). You know. Like that. So I did. I decided that the fakt that spam had accumulated on the shore of my blog was not a sign that all of the other ships had found a better way (or just had my part of the map crossed out) but that the shitty, corrugated tin, chipped wood, homemade ‘boats’ with the sails made of underpants were welcome visitors who had taken great lengths to get across pirate-shark infested waters to arrive here. That these huddled masses of poorly constructed text, advertising and compliments (because you’re not going to click on spam that calls you a dickhead are you?) were my colonists (which makes them sound like people who explore large intestines…). I mean someone out there, felt that my blog was deserving of the time it takes to post some nonsensical spam. That’s a good thing. Right? RIGHT?

Of course I know that most of the spam posted here is, in all likelihood, not even the product of human fingertips. But just because all the other kids tell you the tooth-fairy is horseshit doesn’t mean you stop pulling out your brothers teeth and stashing them under your pillow in the hope of financial reward. So even though the strangely worded prose being sent my way was probably crafted by a rhesus monkey or equivalent, I still allowed myself to feel a warm glow of appreciation with each reading. So allow me to present to you (in the running trend of critical analysis of things that do not require critical anything) my favourite bits of spam.

Awkwardtreed’s Favourite Pieces of Spam (Not Including The Monty Python Classic or The Picture Below)


1. Generalisations, Compliments, Generalisations and Spam.
I precisely had to say thanks again. I am not sure what I could possibly have created without the entire secrets shared by you relating to this problem. It has been a terrifying matter for me personally, nevertheless spending time with this specialized technique you processed it forced me to leap with contentment. I am just happier for the advice and then wish you are aware of an amazing job that you’re getting into instructing some other people all through your web page. I am certain you’ve never got to know all of us.

Why Is It Spam? Well the obvious spelling errors, lack of anything constructive or specific and the fakt that this ‘commenter’ seems to think I excrete wisdom and life advice. My favourite line in this has to be ‘forced me to leap with contentment’ closely followed by ‘I precisely had to say thanks again.’ Just putting it out there: this is the first time you’ve said thanks

Rating: 4.5/5.

2. Warnings, Irony and Spam.
Greetings! Nice post ! I see that here will be a awesome debate at the comment section. Warning: Trolls! But you know, I have looked through something really similar to that story at that blog .

Why Is It Spam? The original hyperlink was for a page called….which, you know sounds legit, but is undermined by the fakt that I have never posted about ever. So there’s no way you found a simliar story – sorry – really similar story on here bub. But I want to thank you for warning me about the danger of trolls and other people on the Internet who exist only to annoy others by posting irrelevant shit… (Let it also be noted that there was no awesome debate in the comments section as all comments were spam-related).

Rating: 3/5.

3. Jailbait Fail and Spam.
Hey cutie from a teenage girlreader keep up the awesome work.

Why Is It Spam? It’s short. It’s succinct. And it’s spam. It’s refreshing to see such a minimalist piece of spammy prose at play here. However the fakt that someone named Vincent is a ‘teenage girlreader’ is suspect. Although now that I think about Vincent could in fakt be a man who reads teenage girls and I’ve just interpreted the whole thing incorrectly. Actually this second perspective is waaaay creepier. Also I’m 21. Who has a girlfriend. And doesn’t want to go to prison. If you’re trying to seduce me with teenage girls…yeah…bad spam. Bad.

Rating: 2.5/5. Loses points for becoming creepier and creepier the more I anaylse it. Gains points for being succinct enough to be a SpamTweet.

4. Spam, Spam, Spam (Hold The Spam) or Scooby Doo Finale Spam.
Hi you have a great blog over here! Thanks for sharing this interesting stuff for us! If you keep up the great work I’ll visit your website again. Thanks!

Why Is It Spam? On first glance, this reads okay. The alarm bells aren’t ringing. In fact this could be legitimate. Alright so they call my blog a ‘website’ but at least it’s not an attempt to help increase my traffic like the others. And sure some of the syntax is a little off, but hey so was Yoda’s and that bitch was deep. And they would’ve gotten away with it to, if wasn’t for those meddling kids and their damn username of undermining idiocy. Yes this little nugget (chunk?) of spammy goodness was posted by an author who uses the monkier etc. Your logic is invalid.

Rating: 4.5/5. And they would’ve had a perfect score too if it wasn’t for the sexdating…oh well…

So there’s that done. Now to go and delete my new ‘friends’…because at the end of the day it is just spam.


P.S This post informative. But could be more better information by increasing traffic. Click here to traffic: ifyouclickthisyou’

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Blastoise From The Past-oise.

Yes, well done. Your astuteness is unparalleled among the parallels. This post is quite close to the last one I did, and if I’m not careful I’m going to have to entertain those nasty expectations again. Look, it’s not my fault. I just have a lot of time on my hands as mentioned previously. Time to spare. Oodles of it. Barrels full of thyme to trade for other spices with merchants from across the globe. I just used the word oodles and now I feel dirty.

Anyways I am currently absent from 503 (our Internet ran out and we have no money to reset it until payday arrives on Thursday, plus there’s a giant amphibious bat trying to get out by head-butting the windows like a moth…and that’s both annoying and slightly dangerous and I really didn’t have time to deal with that shit today) and have spent the morning wandering around the city trying to find Internet to hijack. After being forced to relocate from the neighbour’s lounge room (the guy came home and freaked out and started saying things like ‘breaking and entering’ and ‘police’ and all I wanted to do was use his Internet…and eat his cereal) I headed to Uni and set up camp in the library. I paid some stupid amenities and services fee for no fucking reason, so I feel I can use their wireless whenever I want. Anyway, it’s weird being in here now that pretty much everything else has stopped in termsof University-ness. There’s no-one here. At all. It’s got the eerie ‘lone gunman shoots up a high school’ feel going for it. Which isn’t that unsettling…

Oh wait, false alarm. I am not completely alone. Besides the restless, and I suspect randomly generated, library staff shuffling around the stacks of books, there is a couple of students tucked into corners doing secret things. Seriously there are two of them, in separate corners, that have perfected the art of making oneself totally invisible through the placement of various limbs behind various things. Both of them are totally watching porn I have decided. Why else would you be so secretive about your presence here? Unless the whole ‘massacre’ vibe is getting to them and they’ve naturally responded with making themselves scarce. Perhaps I should move to a corner? Because right now I’m just in the middle of a big empty library looking like an absolute boob.

While I was sitting out in the open, feeling like a boob and having so much thyme on my hands that I was beginning to smell like a pot roast, I was suddenly assaulted by Nostalgia. It came from nowhere, as most nostalgic assaults tend to do, and beat me senseless with childhood toys and photographs of the past. I attempted to chase it, to catch it and to inflict it with some sort of fist shaped retribution, but it was too quick for me and seemed to know the layout of the library. Besides, running in a library after Nostalgia is generally frowned upon and I soon ran afoul of one of the randomly generated librarians (jumping on his head proved to be the most effective way of disposing of him and I netted $1.35 as a result).

My run in with Nostalgia had left me reeling a little bit, a little shaky on my feet and loose in the bowels (too much information?). I staggered back to my computer and tried to fight off the inevitable pining for the past that is associated with contact with Nostalgia agents. It didn’t really work. I found myself reflecting on my High School years, my time in braces (and not the hipster, trendy kind) and eventually found myself thinking about my MySpace page. Which naturally led to me having a quick peek at the old girl.

Was it pretty? Well…well…that remains to be seen. One thing is certainly clear; I thought I was incredibly witty, and I seemed to suffer from that teenage ailment that affects us all at one stage or another—the notion of being far, far, far more complex than you actually are. Luckily I never went dark-side (read wore black and listened to bands with names involving blood, tears and tortured souls with beautiful eyes and hair). But still I couldn’t help but sit there and cringe slightly at my 15, 16 and 17-year-old self’s view of the world. Have you ever found a really old photo album belonging to your parents from the ’70s or ’80s and you sit there with them and laugh at their fashion choices and so on? Every person has that embarrassing collection of memories from an era where they hadn’t quite figured it all out yet. Now thanks to the digital age this assortment of awkward photos, anecdotes and miscellanea is out there for all to see. The faux pas’ my younger self made as a teenager are not hidden in the depths of photo albums and holiday snapshots. In cyberspace, everyone can hear you scream.

So rather than attempt to shield teenage Tom from future scorn (something I don’t think he seemed to care about, he appeared to be a lot less into other people’s perceptions and more into…Fight Club), I am going to present to you an annotated guide to Tom Reed’s MySpace profile (which is coyly titled Tom Reed’s Travelling Circus for reasons that 21-year-old me does not understand). Away we go. Apologies in advance for cringe-worthy statements.

An Annotated MySpace Profile Page.

So first we dig through the boring introduction of age, name and current educational institution. But before long we arrive at some absolute crackers, such as: I am a cinephile and bibliophile respectively.

Clearly someone had just learnt some new words. Why couldn’t I have just said that I liked movies and books you ask? Who knows. I’m pretty sure that most of my classmates would have read that as me wanting to have sex with cinnamon and bibles.

I frequently make a fool of myself by talking first and thinking it through later. So if I offend…I probably didn’t mean it…unless I did. This kid is seriously loose. Contradicting himself. Using copious ellipses. Looks like we definitely have a bad-ass over here. Although one thing hasn’t changed, my inability to think through my voicing of certain thoughts. I just articulate myself better. Although I did use the word ‘bibliophile’…

I am so glad I discovered what semi-colon’s are for; they break sentences up so I can talk about another completely seperate (So I can use grammatical tropes correctly, but not spell the word separate?) idea. Impressed?
You should be…


I don’t speak, I quote. Funnily enough, back in the day, we had to place a restriction on how long we could quote things for at parties etc. This was a ban imposed by girlfriends who were sick of trying to keep up with conversations that consisted of funny one-liners written by someone else.

I am a walking contridiction with veiny arms and a mop of brown hair. Decked out in a cartoon character adorned shirt and a pair of rocking shoes. I’m sorry everyone. This reads like a Big Brother housemate justifying their individuality to viewers when really they’re just a wanker. I wasn’t a contradiction (nor could I apparently spell it) I was just loud. And awkward.

I haven’t seen Twilight. At all. I think I am in the .0009 percent of the teenage population who has not seen it. I’m not sure what I was boasting about here. I don’t know what this means. I have now seen Twilight, just for the record. I still hate Kristen Stewart.

I wish I had superpowers…and a girlfriend. Although I would settle for either. Well younger me, mission accomplished on one front. We are still searching for the former though. All in due time.

And I think Brad Pitt still looks awesome when he takes his shirt off and starts swinging punches. Sounding suspiciously gay. I’m pretty sure 17-year-old me wasn’t aware of the homoerotic overtones of this sort of thing…I hope. Unless it’s just me being edgy again. Because that’s clearly what I thought I was back in the day. An edge.

Now, here’s the interesting part. I then turn my attention to making a list of things before I wrap the profile. A list. Me. Writing lists. It seems that old habits do truly behave like Bruce Willis’ franchises.

1. 27 is a good number. It still is.
2. Never ask me to tell you the Pink Joke if want to still like me by the end of our conversation. It’s a bad joke.
3. Watermelon trumps all other melons. Yep.
4. I have songs that remind me of certain people. Okay…attempts at being deep?
5. David Attenborough is a good bloke. True.
6. My wall is covered in crap. True. Well not as much now because it’s a shared set of walls.
7. If I was some kind of assassin/hitman I would call myself the Magician so I could use the line: I am the Magician, I make people disappear. Oh boy….
8. FALCON PUNCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Relevant.
9. I want a degree in Piracy. Of course we did…
10. Helter Skelter is a good song. Again, what does this even mean?  Did I too feel that it was telling me something Manson-esque?
11. I want to start a revolution…just so, that like Che, I can appear on T-shirts. Witty me is witty.
12. I wish I was like Vince Noir or Jack Skellington…or a combination of both. Okay. I’m not sure what this says about me, I want to be a Mod with ridiculous hair who is also a skeleton? Yep. That sounds legit.
13. The Book Thief is one of the best books I’ve ever read… I don’t understand the need for ellipses at the end of this one. It’s sort of like To Be Continued. Perhaps it’s not the best book I have ever read? Dun! Dun! Dah!
14. I believe in movies, cookie dough and bursting into song for no good reason. Okay then. Good luck with that.

So my nostalgia is running dry (see it’s no longer capitalised) and I think I have embarrassed former me enough. I hope you have had a laugh at my expense, but really what you should all do is go and explore your own MySpace pages and see what falls out when you shake it. Also I discovered the fake band me and my friends created. Yep. Here’s the link, and I recommend you listen to the track of Green Eggs & Ham performed as a rap: FAKE BAND OMG LOLZ.

Anyway, the ominous going to die vibe I’m getting from the library is almost too much. So I’m out of here.


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Irony, Definition Of.

It’s seems now that Uni is over for another year I have lost my best blog topic; namely essays and how not to do them. It seems that this blog thrived on my insightful (I’m sure someone out there found it insightful…right? Mum?) commentaries on my inability to stay focused on the task at hand. I spent a great deal of time and energy discussing the merits of not essaying in most of (if not all of) my posts. In fakt most started off with introduction paragraph (similar to this) explaining all of the essays I should have been writing but wasn’t. But now that those essays are all done and the year is slowly winding down, I find myself drifting aimlessly around the Internet with a distinct lack of intent.

Procrastination only works when you have something to procrastinate about.

However as a serial procrastinator (that’s still immaturely hilarious just because it sounds the same) I strive to be unproductive, so instead of doing other things instead of my assignments, I’m now doing nothing instead of doing other things. I now have all the time in the world to do whatever I want…but my compulsive procrastination is getting in the way of my blissful lack of activity by forcing me to participate in an avoidance of a blissful lack of activity. I’m like a leaf that was once caught in a breeze but has now become stuck in a holding pattern over an air conditioning vent, swirling around and around in circles. See I’ve even started making analogies involving nature.

So what am I going to do now that I have SPARE TIME? I saw a quote on the Internet today that said: lyk dis if you feels. Underneath that was another one about a guy and a girl who stabbed one another in an act of love “five-ever”. On the next page however was something useful (as is the way with most Internet based wisdom, you have to trawl through a lot of pseudo-motivational images of birds and sunsets and intertwined hands talking about individuality and life and how beauty is found in all things if you look hard enough posted by people who don’t believe any of it but are just trying to create an air of intellectuality and spirituality, but really are taking selfies of themselves in the bathroom with the piece of fruit they have started calling their boyfriend/girlfriend/mother-in-law. Parenthesis motherfucker) about time being a form of currency that resets at the end of the day and none of the extra hours or minutes or seconds are carried over, so you should make sure you spend it wisely…because time doesn’t reward you for saving up.

Anyway this quote did three things. First my imagination ran away with me (we had to come back home though because, in our haste to elope we had forgotten to pack sensible footwear and we couldn’t leave again after that because it just looks awkward and silly) and I started to think of this place where wasted time accumulates over the years which then turned into a concept of immortality based on saving a few extra seconds here and there in order to live a little bit longer. Second I got annoyed at the poor grammar (he kept asking me for spare change despite my repeated refusal). And thirdly I thought to myself: “Tom Reed you spend money like a sixteen-year-old who’s just been given a bank account for the first time, you should be kicking asre [sic] at this spending time folly.” I even used the word folly.

So I quickly seized upon this momentary increase in purpose and decided to do something about it. Of course I’m still a procrastinator at heart so I couldn’t immediately start behaving like supporting characters from Dead Poets Society and go and do that Latin thing Robin Williams tells them to do in a creepy voice. No. I had to do it my way (P.S When did I change tense? I hate tense sometimes. I have decided this is a symptom of excess time travelling).

A List of Things Tom Will Do In Order To Carpe The Fuck Out Of Some Diem.

1. I went for a run once. My body hated it. My body is not a temple. It is a restless city full of criminals and I’m Batman. Perhaps a run or two may help clean up the city once and for all? After all, after running for a minute or so my voice becomes hoarse and breathy just like the Dark Knight’s throaty growl. WHERE’SMYRUNNERS?!

2. On the exercise front, I used to swim quite a bit and I find it’s the perfect way to wash away the grit and jaywalking guilt after a day in the city. I also feel a lot more comfortable swimming than I do running. However swimming costs money. So my plan will be twofold. I shall run when poor and swim like a rich man. #richardbransonswimseverydaybecauseheisloaded.

3. James Bond. He’s back guys. And while some would argue that spending an extended period of time in front a large screen indoors is not a way to seize the day and so on, I would like to tell them to politely fuck off. There are a smorgasbord of movies washing up on the cinematic shore in the next few weeks and I want to see all of the things. The best part is I can do it without feeling guilty about not doing something else because of the distinct lack of essay requirements.

4. Write that thing I’ve been wanting to write for a long time. A collection of short, unsettling fiction (not quite horror but stuff that just makes you uncomfortable and nervous to shower alone). To really make it weird I’m going to go to nice, happy places and do my writing there to make me feel like a creep. Because there’s nothing better than writing something truly horrible in the middle of a nice cafe and seeing the waitress’ expression when she accidentally glances at your screen and sees the phrase: “He cut out the bitch’s eyes.” Because you’re by yourself in a cafe. Writing this. Wearing a sweater. An ominous sweater.

5. Buy a watermelon. I did this last week. It was the best. I was going to buy a whole one…but don’t have a high enough skill level to attempt cutting it (nor do I own a machete). WATERMELON UP IN THIS.

6. Follow the various Mormons I see wandering about the place back to their nest, I mean hive, I mean…no actually I do mean nest. I see them on the corner of Lonsdale and Russell most days and always in threes and always with suits and badges and I want to know where they’re coming from. It unsettles me that they’ve managed to slip into the city without anybody noticing. I imagine once I arrive back at their nest I will find a large xenomorphic being laying Mormon eggs. That’s how it works right? Right?

7. Learn to cook something that isn’t spaghetti related. It’s not that I’m getting sick of spaghetti (I’m not. There’s no way that’s ever going to happen) it’s just that I do need to broaden my culinary horizons. Also if I understand it correctly it means I have to invest in some cravats.

8. Finally finish playing Slender. I’m kidding. I still stand by my statement of a few posts back: There is no fucking way I am going into that building.

9. Start solving pun related crimes for little old ladies. In a cardigan. I shall call myself Horatio Cardigan.

10. Get better at writing lists instead of starting with gusto and slowly, slowly petering out around item number 5 or 6. Seriously Tom.

So I am aware that this post is a bit of shambles and isn’t really full of anything poignant or important or you know whatever…but I’m struggling to find something to write about now that there are no essays to be done. So be nice. Please. Carp Diem (it’s the fish equivalent of making the most of the day).



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And We’re Back…

So it’s been a while… firstly let me apologise for the extended absence (although your care factor towards this largely hangs on the whether this blog actually has regular readers and/or those readers care about the blogger). It’s a long story, actually it’s not but I’ve just said that to make it sound like my life is much more impressive than it actually is. Really, the story is quite short and goes along the lines of: I have once again fallen victim to the mighty, supernatural powers of Steve Jobs’ ghost. Yes you read that correctly. I am of the firm belief that after his death, Mr. Jobs, somehow managed (perhaps through a similar method used by Voldemort) to instill a small fragment of his soul into every Apple product in the world. And now, is haunting many Apple users across the globe.

Sounds ridiculous, but hear me out. I recently got a new hard-drive because the old one collapsed in on itself like so many portals in a science fiction movie. It was a pretty shit time for everyone involved. I had two assignments still due and both of them had been swallowed up by the dying hardware (no I didn’t back anything up because no-one actually does that except in hindsight or after they experience the profound loss of everything digital that they own) and essentially I was a grumpy mess. However the lovely people at Apple came to the rescue and gave me a brand spanking new hard-drive (I say gave, it cost me $300 plus). Now all this happened about three months ago, you can imagine my surprise and shock when…it happened again (only this time I did back everything up, you know because hindsight is wonderful).

A little technologically irked I went to the Apple gurus and demanded explanations: the best response was that sometimes this just happens. They agreed to replace it and that was that. But I wasn’t happy with the explanation given that it ‘just happens’. Thus I have developed my own theory: my hard-drive was attacked by the ghostly remnant of the Apple founder and CEO whose soul has been imbibed into my computer. So now, I have covered my laptop in salt (because if Supernatural has taught me anything it’s that ghosts hate that shit) and I have a vacuum cleaner strapped to my back, should the spectre make itself known. This theory is not so far-fetched when you think about it, in fakt it makes a lot of sense. After all people are finding that their new iPhone 5’s are sporadically glitching up…the only logically explanation can be ghostly interference from an ex-CEO who finds the new design stupid and doesn’t agree with the idea of an iPad mini.

But moving on from the Phantom of Apple, we have some catching up to do. After all a lot has gone down since we last spoke (now when I say a lot I probably mean a bit of stuff has happened so don’t be upset if you are underwhelmed by my ‘breaking’ news). We have new residents at 503. Dan has moved out (or at least that’s what Michaela told me after I came home one day and found her vigorously cleaning a cleaver in the sink and no trace of Dan, this is coupled with the fakt that she has been recently taking notes while watching Dexter) and a pair of French cousins have taken his place. Silvia and Mathieu are yet to face off with Dolores, I am waiting with bated breath for the sound of slurping and screams accompanying teeth brushing, but nevertheless are a lovely pair of people. Naturally I have done the thing that all Australians do when met with someone who speaks a foreign language: ask to be taught insults and swearwords in said language. Why would you want to say “How are you?” when you can call someone a fuckwit in five different languages?

That’s it really (besides an excellent purchase of Donkey Kong Country Returns and my completion of second year). I told you that you might be feeling underwhelmed…sorry for that. However on a totally unrelated topic, apparently today is a pretty big deal for all of those around the state. Apparently there’s some event on that’s supposed to be pretty damn important or something like that. I don’t really know what the deal is but there’s a cup and a dude with huge eyebrows named after a member of the Simpsons…

Yes, I’ll admit it: I don’t understand anything to do with horse racing season (is it a season? The ads tell me it’s spring and that’s when a lot of these things happen so I’m going to say yes, yes it is a season). In fakt I don’t understand to such a degree here is a list of the things I don’t understand about horse racing season (and specifically the Melbourne Cup).

Things Tom Doesn’t Get About The Melbourne Cup.

1. First of all what is the deal with the event’s tagline? “The Race That Stops The Nation.” I’m sorry but that’s not a thing. The cup does not stop the nation. What you’re talking about there is a momentary lapse in the movement of time. This is not caused by a horse race. The usual reason for this is that a recreational time-traveller has accidentally run into a past version of themselves. Yep. That makes more sense than a horse race halting an entire country of people. So please drop the tagline and change it to something actually describes the event…like: “A Time For Drunk People Who Don’t Even Like Horses To Come Together” or “Neigh, Neigh, Neigh, Neeeiggghhh!”

2. Fascinators. What the fuck is a fascinator? It’s not a hat. It serves no function besides making the wearer look like either a small fish that has swum into a very small, highly decorative net or an upper class witch doctor. And people spend a fortune on them. I overheard a conversation on the train where a woman was talking about a fascinator costing as much as my car. MY CAR IS THE SAME PRICE AS A FASCINATOR. WHAT IS HAPPENING? Seriously, people going to the races this year, buy me dinner and I will make you a fascinator. It doesn’t seem to be that difficult, in fakt they all look like something a child makes their mother back in kindergarten (just with a noted absence of pasta…although I will add pasta if you deem it necessary). The one thing I will say about the fascinator is that its name is apt. The principle behind such headwear is indeed fascinating.

3. Gambling. I’ve never been one to participate in the pastime of many Australians across the country. I don’t have a flutter or a punt or a wager. I like my money to be used for things like ice-cream, video game purchases and spaghetti ingredients. Gambling to me is a totally foreign world, an activity that is as alien as virgin sacrifice and enjoying mathematics. I say why not just throw large wads of cash into the Yarra, get rid of the middle man, because after all that’s the only thing you’re going to achieve whilst having a flutter. Maybe I don’t get it because I don’t have the spare cash to chuck $1000 on a horse named Next Stop Glue Factory with odds of 14:1. Whatever the reason I just don’t get the obsession, trend or whatever associated with betting on the races. Or rather betting in general, because these days you can bet on pretty much anything from election results to which AFL player is going to be arrested for being drunk and disorderly behaviour next week. However if I was a betting man I would put my money on the fakt that that drunk guy literally throwing money at a horse, doesn’t understand the concept either.

4. People going to the races to get completely blind drunk. They are a select group of people who go to the races because they have an invested interest in the outcome. Some are passionate horse race watchers (I’m pretty sure that’s a thing). Others are famous and sponsored by the race sponsors so have to make an appearance at some tent so people will buy new shoes, champagne coolers and/or bow-ties  The other category of people at races are the people participating in Australia’s other favourite pastime: getting staggeringly and resoundingly drunk. Sure, okay if that’s what you want to do…but why not just do it somewhere else? Somewhere cheaper? Why fork out x amount of dollars to go to an event you’re trying to erase from your memory before it’s even over? Then again if these people didn’t go the races, get pissed and put money on horses that look like their exes, our economy would have collapsed long ago. So maybe it’s a good thing?

And that’s my rant out of the way. Sorry for the length but I’ve been gone a while….

Take care, and if you must bet then my money is on that motorbike disguised as a horse…

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Procrastination Means Always Having To Say You’re Sorry

And in a dramatic turn of events I am once again forfeiting my essay writing responsibilities and doing something else with both my time and energy. It’s kind of sad. I’ve gone back through all of these posts recently and discovered that most of them discuss, at length, my inability to do constructive work. And by constructive work I mean work associated with University and getting a CAREER (which is not at all like The Sims showed me it would be…) and all that other fun stuff involved with GROWING UP, GETTING OLDER and RESPONSIBILITIES. So basically instead of sitting down and writing a philosophy essay (or have I already written my essay? Or is there even an essay question? There is. I’m just being facetious) I’ve found several other ways to occupy my allotted essay time.

The first is watching Totally Wild. It’s on TV. Right now. In front of my face. I’m not really watching it. It’s on mute and is just confusing because I keep looking up and seeing people walking along beaches and pointing at things. Anyways the point I was making with Totally Wild is that everyone on it is really awkward and does not want to be on Totally Wild. It’s a thing you only notice when you get older (see I am being relevant because I’ve mentioned my age twice now). Instead of seeing cool people talking to awesome science people, you now see a group of hip, twentysomethings looking bored shitless as a fifty-year-old suspected pedophile discusses the merits of kites. I remember I used to be repeatedly disappointed with Totally Wild as a child because they didn’t do enough stories on lizards and sharks. Lots of stories about rabbits and kids who are good at skipping though. Neither of those things were on my list of Awesome Things That Should Be On Totally Wild…

Awesome Things That Should Be On Totally Wild
By Tom Reed Circa 1999.

1. Sharks.
2. Lizards.

It’s a short list. I was pretty content as a child. Anyways the second thing I have decided to do with my time is write mysterious, stream of consciousness nonsense…you know because that’s what all the cool writers did. Shakespeare, Orwell, the guy who wrote the novelisation for Godzilla (the one with Matthew Broderick and the guy who does Apu’s voice on The Simpsons). Whatever. Now watch me proudly display my artistic endeavours like a ten-year-old’s artwork on the fridge (only I don’t have a fridge…I have a blog…it saves more energy and doesn’t accidentally freeze the milk which makes for a bad Milo cereal experience).

What Tom Wrote Instead of a Philosophy Essay…
Warning: Wankery Abounds.

You ever wonder how many people actually click those ads telling them that they’ve won a free iPhone? How often do reckon someone legitimately thinks they’ve won something? More to the point, how do the guys behind them possibly think that any of these scams are going to work? Do they sit down and go through focus group responses and analyse statistical data? Is there a testing phase for each new idea? What part of them actually believes they can pull it off? It’s sad.

But you wanna know what’s even sadder? They wouldn’t be doing it if it didn’t work. They would’ve stopped and packed it in a long time ago. And they haven’t. In fact it seems like they’ve increased their output…so that can only mean one thing; it’s working. People are going into these things to redeem their iPad or ten million dollars, and then getting pissy when it blows up in their faces.

They ring some hack, telling the prick they got a story for them. It’s about a decent person being ripped off. A decent Australian, they’re very specific about that part. Very specific. Next thing you know there’re six news stories running that night about innocent people getting scammed by heartless pricks over the internet. Innocent people…fuck. ‘I swear I’m innocent I was just trying to score a free iPad that I don’t remembering ever trying to get in the first place.’

You know what I wanna say to them? The innocent people? Fuck. You. Serves you right you dumb motherfucker.

Word Count: Not My Essay….

So that happened. After that I bought the worst Subway sandwich I’ve ever had (the wind stole the lettuce and the guy who made it was a cheezewidget, who didn’t seem to understand that when I said I wanted onion that meant more than four pieces, who had entered the witness protection program and ended up tasting like bread). May be it was the universes way of telling me that I ought to start my essay. Which sent me back the apartment quick smart and resulted in me doing this instead TAKE THAT UNIVERSAL GUIDANCE! I’m still finding ways to procrastinate with the Fates involved in my destiny. Because I am dedicated to the art. Like that guy who’s taking a swan dive from space. Except there is a minimal risk of death with my dedication. I just might congeal in the corner under a layer of Snickers and socks.

The other activity I partook in was scrolling through the SPAM folder of my comments page. Apparently people think this blog is worth spamming (I feel so very, very honoured). This was the pick of the lot: Wonderful story, reckoned we could combine several unrelated information, nonetheless seriously worth taking a search, whoa did one study about Mid East has got additional problerms at the same time.

I hate it when my Mid East has got additional problerms concurrently…so frustrating.

Anyway all this talk of procrastination has made me feel guilty and sad. So, next time we speak I will have gone for a run. That way I will be forced to do something (or alternatively if you never see another post on here again you know that my laziness got the better of me and I’m trapped in a comfy sofa somewhere). Have a joyous time.

Aloha, Treed.

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