NEW POST: Dear Eyebrows

Dear Eyebrows,

Maybe we should give you a break.

Eyebrows have been in the limelight for a while. They’re having a bit of a moment, aren’t they? It seems that ever since photos of Cara Delevigne starting flooding our Instagram feeds a few years ago, women the world over have become obsessed with their eyebrows.

A facial feature that wasn’t even part of our morning beauty routine five years ago has suddenly become one of the biggest cosmetic investments for women wanting to look ‘fierce’. 

Social media is great like that, isn’t it? All your life you’ve plodded along applying mascara, lipstick, blush, among other things, not giving your eyebrows a second thought.

And then boom, the magical world of social media has suddenly made eyebrows seem to be of the upmost importance.

Alas, now we ladies now have an extra task to add to our already painfully-long morning make-up routine. Because damn girl, your brow game better be strong.

What the hell have we even been doing for all these years, living a world where women ignored the fullness of their eyebrows?

Here we have been, getting them waxed and plucked and maybe tinted, like amateurs. When this whole time, we really should have been pencilling them in every day, getting them shaped, buying brow-kits and spending money visiting ‘eyebrow technicians’. Because yes, that is a legitimate profession these days, of which women are expected to spend even more of their hard-earned pennies on. Thanks heaps, Instagram.

So, we’ve started filling in our brows. Making them look fuller, thicker, darker, bigger. Investing in brow gel, brow pencils, brow highlighter, brow wax – you name it, the beauty industry has thought of everything when it comes to making money off women’s new-found brow insecurity.

You will be made to feel abnormal, unattractive and hell - even a bit weird - if you are not spending at least 10 minutes every morning drawing fake eyebrows on to your face.

Now because this is a fairly annoying thing to have to do every single day, some people have come up with a genius plan...

... keep reading at

NEW POST: Dear Bed-Wetter

Dear Bed-Wetter,

Now this is an entertaining story. Not because there was anything exceptionally entertaining about you as a person; you were fairly stock-standard as far as blokes go – liked beer, enjoyed football, took great pleasure in wearing oversized singlets where your nipples were exposed, thus essentially defeating the purpose of wearing a singlet in the first place. You know, the usual.

The part that was so entertaining about you, Bed-Wetter, was your complete shamelessness. It was almost like you didn’t possess the ability to feel embarrassment. In a way, I am kind of jealous.

Imagine if I could just run around all day doing stupid things because embarrassment just wasn't in my repertoire of emotions? 

Life would be a lot more fun if I could loudly sing along to Kanye West on my morning jog without feeling embarrassed about passers-by looking at me weirdly. Or if I could openly count on my fingers when trying to do mental maths, rather than awkwardly attempting to hide my hands behind back. Or if I could actually sing the '30-days-has-September' song when working out how many days are in the month, instead of just singing it in my head (don't judge, you know you do it too.)

So you know what BW, there is a chance this may all be coming from a place of pure jealousy. However, that doesn’t change the fact that this story is highly entertaining, so we shall press on.

We meet in a crowded bar one Saturday night, and given the reason you’re there is to celebrate your footy team’s victory that afternoon, you’re a bit intoxicated. So we get chatting, chatting turns to dancing, dancing turns to making out, and making out turns to us getting a taxi back to my place.

That really is a beautiful sequence of events, isn’t it? Someone should make a gorgeous flowchart of this romantic journey that regularly occurs in bars and clubs around the world. It would be a work of art.

So BW, we’re in the taxi and I’ll be straight with you - I’m pretty excited. Because from what I can see with that purposeless singlet you’re wearing, you’ve got a fairly sweet rig. And I’m keen to get all over that. However, as luck would have it, I don’t even get close to getting all over that because as soon as we enter my bedroom, you drunkenly pass out on my bed. Out like a light. There is no bringing you back. Clothes haven’t even been removed, and you are out cold. And snoring like an overweight 80-year old as well, I might add.

Well this is no fun. I’m starting to think God really doesn’t want me to be happy. Every time there is something I want, there is some sort of obstacle to me getting it.

  • A side of grilled tomato with my breakfast? Nope, we’ve run out of tomatoes today.
  • That pair of black stilettos in the window? Sorry, we’re sold out in your size nationwide, and we’re not getting any more in - ever.
  • Boobs bigger than an A-cup? Sorry, not in your DNA, so get used to looking like a little boy and stop pestering me.

So now, in light of you passing out cold in bedroom, I’ve come to the conclusion that God really doesn’t like me very much. I’m thinking it might have something to do with the Cadbury Twirl I stole from Target in Year Six.

Thinking there is no way this could get any more frustrating, I grab my pyjamas and go to bed. However, as my good friend God would have it, there is a way this could get more frustrating. I wake up the next morning to find that I am lying in moist sheets. Rather confused, I roll over and discover that the source of the moisture is your pants.

You have pissed in my bed, BW. You have pissed in my bed whilst you were sleeping. Naturally, I jump out of bed and away from the pee-soaked sheets, which causes a stir from your fine self and you wake up. So naturally, I alert you to the fact that HEY, YOU HAVE PEED IN MY BED. To which you respond with... the full letter at

NEW POST: Dear Afternoon Delight

Dear Afternoon Delight,

Now this is a highly amusing tale to tell. Not that you were an overly amusing person on the whole; no, the part that was so amusing about you, Afternoon Delight, was your blissful ignorance of how a 30-year old man should conduct himself when dating another human being. 

Granted, you did still live with your parents. Which, for a 30 year old, isn’t exactly common practice. But I had chalked it up to an entrepreneurial thing, rather than a socially-challenged thing.

And even still, whether you live with your parents or not, it would be fair to assume that by the age of 30, a person would have gone on more than a few dates. They would have experienced the text message courtship. The back and forth banter. The three-day-wait rule before you text them again. Or getting your mates to put a passcode on your phone on the weekend so you can’t text the person you’re dating whilst under the influence.

Because we all know that once you send a drunk text to your date enquiring as to their whereabouts on a Saturday night, you have relinquished all power. You have put all your cards on the table and given the other person the complete upper hand. Forever.

Dating really is a sick twisted mind game isn’t it? But hell, we’re all in it together, so we have no choice but to roll the damn dice and keep playing. It’s kind of like Jumanji, but scarier.

So Afternoon Delight, I am thinking that based on your behaviour with yours truly, you may not have been playing this magical dating game for very long. Come to think of it, you may not have ever played at all.

The first sign was your utter disdain for using words in text messages.

Instead of sending me words in a text message, you would just send an emoji. Now, call me old fashioned, but if you want some back and forth banter with a girl you’re dating, I would think a ‘Hi, how are you?’ ‘What have you been up to?’, ‘How are things?’ would be slightly better options than a yellow smiley face in sunglasses.

And call me old fashioned again, but I’m not of the opinion that an emoji warrants a response. What is there to say? Do I send you an emoji back? If I started playing that game, we could go on for days. Do you know how many emojis there are? There are a lot, Afternoon Delight.

It would be a week-long marathon of sending bashful monkeys and curious moons to eachother. And I just don’t have the time for that.

As such, I don’t respond to your emoji. So what do you do? You send more. I am hit with an onslaught of emojis. One would think after the third or fourth, you would realise that maybe the emoji-sending tactic isn’t quite working out, and perhaps you should text something like – oh, I don’t know – WORDS? Now wouldn’t that be a novel idea!

...keep reading at

NEW POST: Dear Glassons

Dear Glassons,

Are you high?

I assume that the powers-that-be at your organisation must be smoking some sort of illicit substance to sign off on store mannequins that have their bones sticking out.

For a female clothing chain who’s target market has been identified as “a younger fashion conscious customer”, do you really think that it’s a good idea to have this sort of display in your store for your predominately teenage female customer base to come in and witness?

No, I wouldn’t have thought so.

Of course, seeing a mannequin with its ribs sticking out cannot be solely blamed for causing an eating disorder. After all, it is unlikely that a young girl who has never thought twice about her weight or appearance will walk in to Glassons, see your plastic fantastic anorexic model and immediately go home and throw up her lunch.

But sadly that is not the world we live in. Find me a teenage girl who has never thought that she is fat or ugly, and I will give you everything I own. Because you will not find one. In this day and age of Photoshop, young girls are exposed to an onslaught of impossibly unrealistic ideals of beauty every time they see a magazine, watch a television commercial or walk past a billboard, bus stop, train station or basically anything that can be sold as ad space to the beauty and fashion industries... the full letter at

NEW POST: Dear Chompers

Dear Chompers,

Before we get started, I need to point out that I really did admire how unashamedly self-confident you were. So comfortable with you are. Absolutely happy in your own skin. Not a care in the world about what other people think of you.

Come to think of it, I actually envy you. I would love to not care about what other people think of me and be that relaxed about my appearance. Imagine how much time, effort and money I would save if I didn’t care about my hair. Or my make-up. Or spending $50 a month on an ‘eyebrow technician’ to make me look like Cara Delevigne. Or concealing the collection of zits that appear on my chin every month like clockwork.

In fact, it wouldn’t just save me time and money – it would save me pain and trauma as well. Not getting hair ripped out of my legs, armpits, eyebrows, vagina and upper-lip (yes, girls get hair there - deal with it) on a monthly basis would make me a much happier person. Not to mention how nice it would be to not experience all that angst on the way to the beautician when I think about the looming pain I am about to endure.

So kudos to you, Chompers, for your blatant disregard of what other people think.

read it now at

New Post: Dear People Who Say 'My Other Half'

Dear People Who Say 'My Other Half',

Were you born a half-person? Did you emerge from the womb with exactly half the amount of DNA as a standard human being?

When you look in the mirror, do you look like Goldie Hawn in Death Becomes Her where half of her torso is missing? Or perhaps you are like John Candy in Spaceballs where he is half-man half-dog?

Or do you feel you have precisely 50% less personality, character, wit, charm and intelligence than the average person?

If not, I have some news that may be fairly alarming to you, so hold on to your jocks -

You are not ‘half’ a person.

You are a whole person. And, unless you happen to be Sarah Palin or Honey Boo-Boo’s mum, you’re probably a pretty darn awesome whole person as well.

Read it now at

NEW POST: Dear Fish Fingers

Dear Fish Fingers,

Firstly, the nickname is not innuendo for anything. We are talking about actual edible fish fingers, of the Captain Birds Eye variety. So get your filthy mind out of the gutter.

Fish Fingers, we meet one evening at a local bar. You asked for my number, and the week that followed was full of text message banter, until finally you asked me for a dinner date.

“I’d love to make you dinner. Would you like to come to my place, and I’ll cook a meal for us?”

Well-played, Fish Fingers. Points for gallantry. You’re not just going for the traditional restaurant dinner date, only giving yourself the responsibility of picking an eatery. No sir, you’re going all out. You need to do more than just pick a restaurant. You need to pick a meal. Then choose a recipe. Then go grocery shopping for the ingredients. Then come home and lovingly prepare it all yourself. And not to mention, after all that comes the hardest part of all (which we all now know from watching endless seasons of Masterchef). You need to plate up, Fish Fingers. You need to PLATE UP. And damn, that is a whole separate pressure-filled task unto itself, fraught with danger and angst.... the full letter at