The Name of the Hustle

Hi all! From now on I'll be blogging from The Name of the Hustle. Come check it out and say hi!

Love love...

LL

This week I...

...experienced first uncomfortable flight. Wiggled butt down Chapel Street. Fell in love with Melbourne...again. Planted long-time-coming kisses on girlfriends' faces. Drank Moscato. Drank champagne. Drank beer. Toasted love and the institution of marriage. Danced like a hoochy. Drank champagne again. Fell asleep in the middle of a party. Laughed with friends about it later. Regretted the champagne. Played tour guide. Bought retro alarm clock. Bought huge watch for $25. Realised two of the dials on said bargain watch painted on the face. Laughed about it. Was reminded about how beautiful friends are. Felt sad when they jumped on a plane back to Cairns. Wrote story about friendship. Sat in an airport for five hours. Hugged sister. Cried watching Les Mis 25th anniversay concert. Went to sleep singing "Castle on a Cloud". Got a surprise call from ex. Secretly smiled about it. Sang "Who am I?" in shower. Realised object of lust is married. Realised object of lust has kids. Laughed at myself. Wrote feature about it. Got attacked by a magpie...again. Dressed wound. Nursed ego. Was reminded how lucky I am to have such gorgeous flatmate. Wrote story about sharehouse horrors. Finished final uni assignment. Clicked heels together on handing it in. Bad knee gave way and I fell. Laughed. Wrote story about public humiliation. Ate a kebab.

Where else but Queensland?

Though we protest the sniping and snobbery of our southern friends, there’s no denying Queenslanders have always relished their inherent underdog status. From Cape York to Coolangatta, maroon blood flow througheth our veins. Unsurprisingly, Queensland is better known for its cauliflower-eared State of Origin behemoths than its world leading creative industries princincts and unique emerging cultural scene.

To quote columnist Michael Hodges of Time Out, grey old inner London "is a perfect place for the miserable … [but] it's being miserable that gets things done. No one comes to the capital to be happy. They come here to do stuff."

This idea is reinforced by psychology Professor Joe Forgas's recent work at the University of NSW, which suggests not only that grumpiness can enhance cognition but also that grey, rainy weather improves memory and acuity, while sunny weather encourages forgetfulness.

In other words, there's what feels nice, and there's what gets stuff done.

This may help explain why Melbournian culture is traditionally more fertile than that, shall we say, of sunnier climes. It may also explain why a modicum of repression seems historically to act as a creativity enhancer. Take that, self-congratulatory southern cities!

Queensland is considered one of the world’s most beautiful tourism destinations and it isn’t difficult to understand why. Unfathomable stretches of mysterious, untouched tropical wilderness lie just beyond our back fences and the Pacific Ocean softly caresses our feet while we dig our toes into creamy-white sand and bask in the dreamy kiss of that old seductress in the sky, 300 days a year.

It’s ironic then, that the root of the “banana bending bogan” stereotype we so vehemently deny lies in the very things that make the Sunshine State such a desirable holiday destination today.

Let’s be honest. Only here would an 18-year-old university student be infamously bashed by police, hospitalised, then charged with disorderly conduct and resisting arrest only to go on to become one of the state’s best loved and longest serving premiers. Even the genetic mastery demonstrated by our own Miss Universe Rachel Finch wasn’t enough to distract Australia’s media from the beauty’s distinctly nasal northern twang - enough to make even the cheese-eating pageant circle cringe. Where else but Queensland, ay?

- snippet from Metropolis Metamorphosis (Lara Lavers for FROCK PAPER SCISSORS 2010/11)

STAB mag, Issue 44.

Richie Freeman for STAB mag

People die of common sense, one lost moment at a time.

Laws of the Universe, volume 1.

I get my good karma back in the form of really fast growing nails and hair and awesome car park-finding luck. 'Tis grand.

Sing it, Springfield!

I don't know what it is that makes me love you so, I only know I never wanna let you go. 'Cause you've started something, can't you see that every since you left you've had a hold on me. It's crazy but it's true, I only wanna be with you!

Last Lecture

A lot of professors give talks titled 'The Last Lecture'. Professors are asked to consider their demise and to ruminate on what matters most to them. And while they speak, audiences can’t help but mull the same question: What wisdom would we impart to the world if we knew it was our last chance? If we had to vanish tomorrow, what would we want as our legacy?

We can rebuild you, we have the technology...

I was a dancer once, but then my body betrayed me. I was 20 years old and broken - can you imagine? Now I carry a card in my wallet – a license of sorts - in case the steel plates and screws holding my left knee and hip together set off a security checkpoint. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m holding out in hope that it will someday.

Hotel Hangout. The most relaxed I've been all year. I heart Melbourne.

The self congratulatory capital of Australia.

I'm an east coast girl. I grew on the east coast of Queensland; transitioned to adulthood on the east coast of New South Wales; fell in love on the east coast of America...

For some reason though I've never really gotten to know Melbourne. I'd acquired the impression that it was a wanky, pompous kind of place - 'til now. I spent the weekend there and now I am in love. The galleries! The old architecture! The deciduous trees! The offbeat allyways where you get coffee, not stabbed! People grow magnolias in their front yards and you can buy peonies and rununculi at the markets like, whatevs. Magnolias! Rununculi!

Melbourne's my kind of place; chilly and gloomy. The city made it ok for me to prance about in a high-culture induced euphoria, swathed in a neoprene and leather jacket, harem pants slung low, pale throat wrapped in an exhorbitantly expensive silk contraption (a bitter-sweet reminder of east coast American love gone wrong), rich pigment on lips and flowers in hair, no quizzical stares from homely Queenslanders, nor cruel snickers of City Beach clad teens. What a lark! What a dream!

Most of all though, I got to hang out with my wonderful parents, who flew in a few days before I did. They're the greatest 'rents a gal like me could have be born of, and it was lovely being able to wander the streets with them in their low-key, dorky kind of way, recharge, even regress for a moment.

It's true.

"If God created us all in his image, and some of us are gay, then that must mean that God is a little bit gay. Makes sense, how else would you explain flamigoes?"

- Adam Hills

How come there weren't guys like Danny Zuko when I was in high school?

An artistic education

Life is messy. Gloriously messy. Like fingerpainting.

Love hustle

I was your mistress. Then you wrote me love letters and taught me how to drive. We played soulmates and self-destruction, painted a story on walls of our own, interlaced our fingers and traced our names in the sky. You called me LuLu and I stayed a while, and we go 'round with smiles on our lips 'cause the ride is still fun and fine. We were never that good at goodbye; Baby's got me by the hand and by the heart.

Kitten and Ink

A little shy, and sad of eye, but very wise was he.

Mooie kleine Nederlandse kinderen

Hey Mumma

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Robert Frost; the master of making simple words say profound things.

Sometimes when I meet new people, I worry I'll mention something they haven't told me but that I've discovered through some light Internet stalking.

Cursing at the Moon

Sometimes, a loud, resounding, "fuck you" is the best answer.

But not always, sadly.

Sexy Virgin Girls

"My life is easy. My skin is thick. I have no agendas and no unshakable beliefs. I hate no one and my hot eyes admire many. I have a temper, but that is a family curse. When I'm not writing I lie on my back and imagine sexy virgin girls calling my telephone."

- Crazy-talented Derek Rielly, editor of STAB mag. Sigh!

A circus, a sailer, and me.

Sometimes I dream of running away and joining a travelling circus; I'll spend my days reading Hugo and Tolstoy and exploring the night with an ex-naval officer from France called Olivier. He'll watch me dance across the tightrope, perched in the back with a carnation in his lapel and stars in his eyes. We'll slink into the shadows of a crowded bar and he'll regale me with stories of piratic adventures and swashbuckling on the high seas. He'll name his sailing ship LuLu and as I leave to chase my next horizon, I'll be forever tattooed across his heart...

Fiscal Policy

Exchange your self loathing for cash. Turn it into something you can use.

Sing to me Bruno Mars...

The Ugly

It's ok to be angry. Just don't let it masquarade as anything other than what it is. Don't sprout your vitriole on the Internet. Don't let it change who you are. Nothing is more repugnant than bitterness and passive-agression. You have no control over anything anyone else does. But you have the right and the responsibility to make choices about where you go from here. Ownership is powerful. Don't let your hurt consume you. Let it go.

Is there a word for that?

We aussies have a remarkable knack for stealing phrases from other languages and shoe-horning them into our vernacular, often murdering the meaning or pronounciation in the process. "Par-don-em-waahh?" I hear you interject in defiance, "Say-imp-poss-see-blah!"

Here's a few I've come across that I intend to steal in the near future.

L'esprit de l'escalier
Literally means "the spirit of the staircase". It's a French term used to describe those moments when you think of the most intelligent, witty, ego-deflating retort, five hours after the opportunity to deliver said brilliance has passed.

Backpfeifengesich
A German word (yes, that's a single word) that means, "A face crying out for a fist in it"

Tingo
A Pascuense word that means "To borrow things from your friend's house one by one until there's nothing left"

Kummerspeck
Literally "grief bacon". German for weight gain caused by eating your feelings.

Schadenfreude
Again, German for "Happiness at the misfortune of others". How Germanic is that?!

Je ne parle pas français

I like to pretend I'm hell french, and most of the time I pull it off. The reality is I can only speak the absolute basics of conversational Francais; like the shit you learn from watching Madeline.

Legs and the Bunny

If I could still get away with scribbling your initals on my wrist in texta, I totally would.

Loving...

Cold watermelon, thunderstorms, Hydromask, unpretentious intelligence, dance-offs and soul trains, green eyes, penguins and pirates, New York, grace and integrity, cleverness and wit, back tickles, sea turtles, stupid laughs, fabulous men, adventures, home, long lunches, family, bright smiles, uninhibited friendship, hot legs, midnight blue, airports, sisterly-speculation, movie nights, consistency, journalists, five inch heels, wine-time, Redskins, lipstick-feminists and educated activists, talking fast and dancing slowly, fat lashes, collarbones, inappropriate conversations, happy-snaps, notoriety, serenity, reading, writing, and rocking the world!

The Consolations of Philosophy

We feel guilty because we are guilty.

Let it go. Let it out.
Let it all unravel.
Let it be free and it can be
A path on which to travel.

-Michael Leunig

Salty Days and Starry Nights

For years we've flitted about this sweet flirtation. Nothing too dramatic, just the type of crush that never evolves; exchanging furtive smiles across crowed rooms, and slinking away for steamy kisses on sultry nights after too much sangria; away from the judgemental stares of lifelong friends who'll complicate things with too many questions...

Just to mix things up a bit...

See ya later blondey, nice knowing you xx

Nerd alert!

Never, ever study Mass Communication if you ever want to be a normal person again any time in the future. Years ago, I'd go to sleep with a notepad and pen next to me because I often wake up with these great ideas for essays or stories in the middle of the night. Last night, I was having a nocturnal stroke of genius, and as I typed my idea into a note on my BlackBerry, then emailed that note to myself so I could pick it on my lappy in the morning, I actually said to myself, and I believe this is verbatim, "That, my friends, is digitial convergence theory in practice. Oh yeah!" What?! Am I some kind of power-nerd?! Oh my god make it stop!

A Robert Palmer girl with fangs...

...simply exsanguinable.

Advance Australia Fair Hair

Ironically, the same Aussie kids who threw rocks at my then 8-year-old mother on the streets of Brisbane and Melbourne while their parents stood by doing nothing to stop them, spitting at her as she passed cause she was a filthy "wog" (apparently wog used to mean anyone from Europe in the 50's) now stop me on the street to coo and gush about how nice it is to see a "real" Australian-looking girl, "for a change", they add with a sneer. What does that even mean? Sometimes people disappoint me.

"Did I vote on your marriage?"

Until 1984, sex between consenting adult men was punishable in New South Wales by up to 14 years in jail. One day we'll see the way society has treated gay people with the same kind of shame we do slavery, apartheid, Jim Crow, the abhorent treatment of aborigines and the oppression of women. There's no legal or moral justification for withholding the civil rights of any person.

...and the teeth of a tiger!

The day that was...

In the end that day was a deadly mix of never ending shit-fight and the proverbial Doldrums. But somewhere in the middle, I was kissed by a beautiful man, and Rupert Murdoch bought me a piece of cheesecake. And all was well.

“Adults are just obsolete children and the hell with them.” - Dr. Seuss

Love Letters

I just found a box of old notes from a man I once loved, once upon a previous life.

We'd grown up together. Then a few years ago we realised we wanted completely different things. Our big love is over, but reading these beautifully hand-written notes, two and a half years and much water under the bridge later, still makes me smile.

It's not Shakespeare, but it was us. In amongst them, gems like "You're the best deckie I've ever had", and, "I miss you jumping out from behind corners like a five-year-old and scaring the living shit out of me"

They made me laugh. I love how he loved the stupid things I do and how he thought I made his life brighter.

It's funny how it's not the grand gestures or declarations of undying love you remember, it's the small acts of unprompted kindness that stick, like a handprint on your heart.

Now I'll say that despite being completely wrong for each other, you'd never have met two people who were more in love than me and this guy. Our bond was unparalleled, which is probably why we spent the better part of a decade killing ourselves wondering desperately why this just wasn't working. In the midst of all of this, he did things that broke through the frustration and crippling sadness to show me the man that he was. And he was good man.

I remember, whenever he used to pass our local shops, he'd stop and buy me a Redskin and a loveheart lollypop because he knew how much I loved them. It wasn't a big deal, and it probably only cost him a few dollars in all the years we were together, but it always made my heart sing, and it was his way of showing me he was thinking about me even when I wasn't there.

Never underestimate the unshakable power of a little token of kindness.

Hello Sunshine

Crossing Dallas

Over the Summer, I spent a few weeks at my parents' place in Cairns recovering from a badly broken leg, and ended up doing some writing for CairnsEYE magazine - a sweet little lifestyle glossy published by The Cairns Post, the first paper I ever worked for back when I was a bright-eyed and baby-faced graduate.

My first assignment was to write a profile on local league cutie Mark Dalle Cort. I ended up spending a bit of time with him because, ah, I had to write this piece, which is my way of justifying having a totally innappropriate summer romance with a guy I'd just met.

The day this was published, I got a message from Dalla saying it was the nicest thing anyone had ever written about him. I may have been drugged up to the eyeballs on some serious painkillers when I wrote it, but he made my recovery just that little bit sunnier.

After a year plagued by reports of rugby league player debauchery, I begin to think all could be forgiven after a chat over coffee with the Northern Pride’s newest recruit Mark Dalle Cort.

You can’t help but like this ex-Super League centre. Mark has an irresistibly dangerous appeal; he looks like a rockstar, has a pair of blue eyes that would melt the heart of an ice-queen and the type of body only gifted to those who dedicate their lives to sport. But behind the 105kg frame and tattoos, Mark is a kind hearted, roguishly charming man who loves his mum and is adored by anyone who has the pleasure of counting him a friend.

Growing up on the Gold Coast, Mark – or “Dalla” he corrects me with a cheeky smile – first picked up a footy as a six-year-old.

“Dad used to play and I loved watching him when I was little,” he explains.

Fresh out of high school, the Burleigh Bears junior was signed to the St. George Illawarra Dragons in 2000. After heading north to the Cowboys in 2004, Mark was recruited by UK Super League team the Celtic Crusaders and made the move to Wales in 2007.

After a VISA mix-up last year saw him and five of his Crusaders teammates deported from the UK, Mark is now busy enjoying all Cairns has to offer.

“For the last two years I’ve been playing on icy pitches in Wales, so the tropics might take some getting used to but I’m loving the outdoor lifestyle again.”

If he’s not out on the water fishing, Mark is busy planning his next overseas adventure. The self-confessed travel addict has touched down in nearly every continent of the world.

“My favourite place would have to be New York, or Cinque Terra in Italy – too tough to decide! I’d love to see South America next, or Cambodia,” he says.

“I love how travel broadens your experience, and it’s great having friends from different countries and from all different walks of life.”

Return to Grace

My old university roommate recently made his debut for the Queensland Reds, so I found myself in the unlikely role of crazed rugby fan at the opening game of the 2010 Super 14’s season.

I don’t know much about rugby union, but a Saturday night swilling beer with the boys and screaming myself hoarse while toothless, cauliflower-eared behemoths crashed headlong into each other seemed like an exciting relief from Brisbane’s style-o-philic bar scene.

The evening panned out a little differently to how I’d imagined. Not only did the male contingent of the group gallantly brave the bar queue to bring the girls our fruity cocktails, I hadn’t seen so many skin-tight jerseys and pompadour haircuts on a footy field since, well, State of Origin (we all know how those rugby league pretty-boys love a faux-hawk).

As I sipped my vodka soda and pondered the all-pervasive nature of fashion, line-outs, rolling mauls and a fairly magnificent try attempt on field competed for my attention with the presence of some very stylish punters in the stands. Checked shirts teamed with black skinny jeans and vintage Converse kicks patiently explained penalty decisions to well-heeled female companions; distressed denim and simple white tees paired back with bohemian man-jewellery and perfectly stubbled jawlines sipped lattes and nursed toddlers; and up on the corporate balconies, Hugo Boss suits lent steadying hands to women in teetering stilettos. Brixton fedoras perched atop effortlessly cool curls, asymmetrical hairstyles played up chiselled features and a tightly clipped profile highlighted the sun-soaked complexion and blue-eyed twinkle of a modern day Adonis. It was like sitting in on a GQ casting, only these weren’t models. They were real men.

It seems the days of the two dimensional male stereotype are over. You used to either be a blokey “man’s man”, or “…one of those honky, metro peacocks”, as one of my more rugged male friends once put it.

And while women were breathing a sigh of relief as “SNAG-ism” lost it’s appeal and the death of the “metrosexual” saw GHD straighteners and fake tan returned to the “hers” side of the vanity unit, men were left scratching their heads as to whether the pink shirt was still an acceptable wardrobe choice, or if picking up the dinner cheque would get him a second date or a slap.

According to Karen McIlveen and Madeene Brooks, co-founders of Grace Academy - a local finishing school which caters to men as well as women - the charm of yesteryear is making a comeback. Old-school etiquette and a gentile pride in the way we look and behave have been reinterpreted for the modern world, empowering women and making well-mannered, stylish men more desirable than ever.

“A man with polished manners and who knows how to dress, walk and talk, is perceived as being more appealing and confident, and is therefore more successful in his relationships,” says Ms Brooks.

This is a welcome relief for the men who tempted ridicule for even a remotely chivalrous gesture or a vague nod to sartorial elegance.

So how do men today navigate these unchartered waters without rocking the boat? Luckily there are some basics.

Ms McIlveen explains that a well-groomed, considerate man stands out in our post-grunge, hyper-casual society.

“Manners make all the difference,” she says, “Chivalry is about knowing how to make women feel at ease and appreciated.”

Gentlemanly manners on a date can range from simply holding a door open or insisting she have the last yummy bite of dessert, to escorting her down the street curbside, thus shielding her from such unthinkable calamities as bus-sprayed puddles. However, when it comes to the female view of male chivalry, one size doesn’t fit all.

“The modern man is all about striking a balance between being a gentleman and respecting a woman’s independence,” explains Ms Brooks.

As modern women, we work hard and are more than capable of paying our own way. Even so, at some point during a date, someone, somewhere, is going to hand over some cash, and the subject of payment can get a little awkward. To circumvent a snatch-and-grab for the cheque, or that painful, “oh no, I insist!” tug of war, conventional wisdom dictates that he - or she - who asks for the date, pays. However, experts agree it never diminishes a man's character to at least offer to pick up the tab.

"When people don't know each other very well, it's OK to revert to traditional gender roles,” says Melissa Kirsch, author of The Girl's Guide to Absolutely Everything. Although, “Once dating has been continuing apace for a while, there should be no awkwardness about the woman paying,” she adds.

Embracing man-style is far less complex, though not without its own set of unique challenges.

While women have had their tastes, style and personalities on show for the world in the clothes they wear, men have long been protected by the cloak and mask of unified dress regulations.

Today, there is a far broader range of fashion for men to choose from. This gives them an opportunity to inject a bit of personality into their wardrobes, and to interpret trends in their own way.

“I like a man who is aware of his own style and what looks good on him, without being consumed by it,” says 27-year-old Kylie from Kewarra Beach. “It can give you a bit of an idea about his personality, and says to me that he’s attentive, which is important in a relationship.”

“It has to come from him though,” adds 23-year-old Chelsea from North Cairns. I’ll give advice, but I’m not his mother and you can tell when a man is uncomfortable in what he’s wearing. Confidence is just as important.”

Professional surfer, 2010 Quicksilver Pro champion, iconic “man’s man” and unlikely fashion commentator Taj Burrow has also noticed the shift in how society views style and men.

“Put in too much effort and you’re labelled a princess. Too little and you’re out of your league,” he says.

Taj’s style tips include learning to tie your own tie, enlisting the help of a tailor to custom fit an off-the-rack suit, the importance of hydrated skin, good grooming and a signature scent, and keeping it simple in dark colours when in doubt.

“Plain gear is better most of the time, anyway. Dressing in black can make even a crook country kid like me look borderline sophisticated,” he jokes.

When it comes to being stylish with grace, subtlety reigns supreme. Keep it understated; prattling on about the designer he’s wearing, or the awesome deal he got on Ebay bespeaks a man of little class who’s trying way too hard to be impressive. Feign ignorance - true style is effortless.

Likewise, overdoing the chivalry routine — half-bowing as he holds the door or offering his arm with a flamboyant flourish — will at best make a man seem like a pitiful, slightly ridiculous fraud, better suited to chirping “Yes, ma’lady” at a jousting tournament.

As for me, the stoically single gal, I’m busy studying the intricacies of rugby union. Hey, after a week of editorial meetings, wardrobe malfunctions, parking tickets, university cramming, rude neighbors, fat days, road rage, deadline-induced deliria, a monsoonal deluge and the resulting frizzy hair emergency, what woman would say no to a little male pampering, a vodka and soda and a whole lot of eye candy.

- Lara Lavers for CairnsEYE Magazine, a little glossy published in sunny FNQ. xx

Down in Mexico

"We're looking at a live skycam shot of Melbourne; the cultural, sporting, fashion, coffee drinking, self-congratulatory capital of Australia." - Andrew O'Keefe.

Brilliant.

Oh hello Jessica Rabbit!

My beautiful friend Katie Jansen. Another Cairns product.

Repped by Dally's in Brisbane
Photos by Thom Kerr

Pieces...

When we went our separate ways, a little piece of me stayed with you. Most of the time it’s fine; most of the time I don't even notice the piece is missing.

Today it feels like I’ve lost a limb.

I kinda...

...miss modelling.

Message in a bottle...

The days that are supposed to be the big ones are never as earth-shattering as you imagine they’ll be. It’s the plain, old, regular days, the ones that start out like any other, that end up being the days that change your life.

I woke up next to my boyfriend the day after my 22nd birthday, like I had every other morning for three years. There was nothing unusual about that morning, and definitely nothing to suggest it would ring in a day that would change the entire projection of my life. But - in life’s ever-unpredictable fashion - we bought tiles for our new home in the morning and by that afternoon he was gone; our relationship was over and I was alone in our apartment, paralysed with grief.

My friends were my saviours, sitting by my side, crying with me because my heart was broken and staying with me each night so the bed didn’t feel so big on my own. This was serious testimony to the strength of our friendship because I’d lost all concept of the outside world and for an entire week didn't eat, shower, or brush my teeth. When I finally surfaced, I was 7 kilos underweight, smelled like a foot, and had a small eco-system flourishing in my mouth. Gross.

The year following the breakup was a blur of beauty and danger; of fun and disappointment. I made new friends, rediscovered old ones and let go of others who were never really friends in the first place. I moved to Brisbane on a whim, got tattooed, got drunk, obsessed over losers, broke the hearts of good men, went back to uni, went a little crazy, forged my own way again and learnt to live on my own. I worked my ass off to be a person I could be proud of, played with abandon, made grand plans, laughed until I cried then cried because I missed him; cried because despite having loved him with my entire being, hindsight had cursed me with a remarkable new clarity and I’d run out of excuses for his inability to love me the way I deserved to be loved.

One of the biggest lessons the whole experience has taught me is that love in real life is nothing like the happily-ever-after of your childhood imaginings. It didn’t matter that we absolutely, inexplicably loved each other; the fact was we were intrinsically different people and I could never have been with him without sacrificing parts of me that make me who I am. In one moment on that seemingly normal day - the day after my 22nd birthday - I realised all the frustration, crippling self-doubt and desperate sadness suffered at his hands outweighed knowing he loved me more than he knew how to love anyone.

It’s these moments that define us as modern women, when our experience, knowledge and expectations manifest; when you’re rocked to your core and you grow as a human being. There is something empowering about valuing yourself enough to walk away from an unhealthy situation, regardless of how scary and heartbreaking a future on your own can seem. It’s amazing how resilient you can be if you give yourself the chance. If it weren’t for that one moment - that one seemingly ordinary day - I might never have resolved to take control of my own life and happiness.

Maybe all the shit is necessary. If nothing else, nothing will make you stronger than pulling your bedraggled soul out of the pit you’ve slowly dug for yourself. I look back on my life before that day and can hardly believe I allowed myself to be picked to pieces the way I was. None of that really matters now though because I chose better, and I’m still here.

Sunday Roof-toppin'

The best place to hide a book...

...is in a bookshelf.

Undercover Lover

I once dated a boy who had a bit of a profile. He made me laugh, and we were completely into each other, and by that I mean he was a stone cold super-fox, and I was a "really great girl".

I wasn't seeing anyone else, but found out he was one memorable weekend... through the media. I'm a journalist. Resulted in a few awky, "So Lu, I'm guessing you've seen the news..." texts from said boy.

You haven't lived until you've potentially had to investigate and cover your own secret breakup at work.

Little Lost Girl

I've lived in Brisbane for two and a half years, and can still turn a five minute run to the Auchenflower IGA into a forty-five minute adventure through the hills of Bardon.

The cutest clown there is...

Say hello to my friend Grant Mason. He is one of the most beautiful, wonderful, gorgeous men I know. A true friend. No one can double me over with hysterical laughter quite like this guy, cheer me up with a spontaneous Skype-date nor out-shock me with a totally inappropriate but irresistibly salacious story. Much love Maso, miss you beautiful man. xx

Brisbane love

This city really knows how to turn it on for the fans.

Hey you.

Sometimes I think people confuse being who you are with behaving badly. There's a big difference between being outspoken and opinionated, and being a disrespectful shit-brain. That's not who you are, that's how you're behaving, and you're hurting people's feelings, or making them think you're a dick-faced idiot, and that's sad cause you're better than that.

Culturally Relevent

Reality just ain’t what it used to be. So we’ll plan our next venture beneath the skies. We’re gonna make cupcakes, make love, make a coffee table. Get a goldfish and get a tattoo, get out of our heads, out of the race, and just start living. We'll play scrabble with the skeletons in our closets and drink tea with the monsters under our beds, hold someone by the hand and by the heart, wink at the stars and love with abandon in this too-big world. And if there is no spoon, fuck it. ‘Cause it’s Summertime, and the ride is still fun and fine.