Monthly Archives: February 2013

I am a Pushover & My Sister Annoys Me


Next week, Tara and I are going to Soundwave in Brisbane. We have to go to Brisbane because Tara’s a teacher, and Melbourne’s Soundwave is on a weekday.

I was very much looking forward to seeing the Offspring, Garbage, Metallica, Blink 182, and Linkin Park. That is, until I saw the timetables. Garbage clashes with Linkin Park, and Blink 182 and the Offspring clash with Metallica. Fisrtly, what the fuck?! I’ve never seen so many huge bands clashing with each other before. But secondly, I told Tara, and discovered that she really wants to see Linkin Park. It’s her main band. But you see, I really want to see Garbage. They’re not my main band (the Offspring takes that award), but they are awesome. So Tara explains to me that we both love more Linkin Park songs than Garbage songs, so it’s only logical that we see Linkin Park. And I agree.

But hang on just a minute!

Last year we also went to Soundwave in Brisbane. I desperately wanted to see Kittie, but they clashed with Limp Bizkit, who Tara wanted to see. Now, we both listen to heaps more Kittie than Limp Bizkit. Kittie was one of the bands that introduced us to metal in the first place! But we saw Limp Bizkit. Because I am a fucking pushover. But you see my issue here? Tara only uses logic when it works for the bands she wants to see. And while I do agree that it’s better we see Linkin Park instead of Garbage, my biggest regret in life is that I let Tara drag me into seeing Limp Bizkit instead of Kittie.

On another (still, but not equally, frustrating) note, my sister is no longer well trained. Last night she was over for dinner. The only soft drinks we had were coke (intended for mixing purposes) and pepsi max. I put the coke in the freezer so it would be cold in time for dinner (because, you know, coke tastes better, regardless of its original purpose), and the pepsi in the fridge. But when Tara got the drinks, she didn’t realise the coke was in the freezer, and opened the pepsi instead. Now that was all well and good – we could drink pepsi, and I would be able to keep the coke for mixing, like I intended. But then Tara got another drink. And she opened the coke! Who even does that?! The pepsi was already bloody open! You don’t just open another bottle of drink when there’s already one open, no matter how much better it tastes. Especially not at someone else’s house! So thanks Tara. Because of you, I now have two half-full bottles of soft drink, and nothing to mix my alcohol with.


I Don’t Want To Die


I don’t want to die.

I’ve been planning my story for novels, and one of my characters has a brother with cystic fibrosis. Last night I was doing some research on CF, and found the blog of a woman with it. She blogged for four years, and I read it all. I read about her illness. I read about her life. I read about her documentary. I read about her deterioration. I read about her transplant. About her excitement at facing a whole new life ahead of her. About her chronic rejection. About her fears. About her death. She was only 25.

A while ago I saw a film about a man with Duchenne’s Muscular Dystrophy. He seemed so healthy the entire film, but then all of a sudden, he got pneumonia and died. He was 20. You see, the average life expectancy for people with DMD is 25. A guy from my school has DMD. We’re 20 as well.

I don’t want to die. I don’t know what comes after. I don’t want there to be a heaven. At least not in the traditional sense. I would like to create my own heaven. To have my own little corner, that no-one else shared unless it was their heaven too. But I do not want to live on clouds with all my dead loved ones. I would rather be reborn. Living different lives. Having second chances. I am not religious. I do not believe in any gods. I shout at the sky when bad things happen. I ask if they are real, and yell at them for playing with their magnifying glasses. But I don’t think I believe. I would like to. I want that something I can hold on to. I wish I had that kind of faith. But I don’t. All I have is this tiny hope that when I die, it’s not just it.

I was given a healthy body. Mine didn’t come with an early expiration date like so many other people’s. Not like people with CF or DMD. But with the way I treat it, I’m going to give it one. And it’s not like I’m even running around living to death. I’m not about to die because my parachute didn’t open, or because I got frostbite climbing Mt. Everest. I’m just sitting at my laptop with a bunch of junk food, slothing myself to death. My family has diabetes. My family has cancer. My family has mental problems. I don’t want to die. But I can’t just do nothing and expect to live. Death comes easy. Life takes work.

I want to grow up. I want to finish my degrees, get a job, get married, buy a house, have a bunch of kids, raise them, and then see them raise their own kids. And somewhere in the midst of all that, I want to travel the world. I don’t want to die in my twenties from a heart attack or diabetes. Which is why starting now, I have to try harder. I will have a healthy breakfast whenever I have time. I will not have an extra milo or an extra cookie just because no-one’s going to stop me. I will say no when I get offered an unnecessary helping of junk food. I will not eat chocolate at clubs just because it’s free. I will walk wherever I can. I will not watch TV or go on the laptop all day. I will make myself healthy lunches. I will hurry up and get a medicare card and register for organ donation.

I will live.