Religion and the Pretty C-Bomb

This post will be split into two parts because it deals with two different but loosely connected things.

When I was religious I didn’t swear much. Well I occasionally said ‘shit’ but mostly just stuck to the fat-free cuss words like ‘crap’. I was so strict with myself that if I even thought the word ‘fuck’ I’d feel guilty for hours afterwards (I wish I was kidding). But I certainly didn’t even go near the C-bomb. No way, nuh-ah. Too sinful. All the soap in the world wouldn’t wash out that sucker. So here’s my story…

I

Upon my conscious bitter as betrayal uncoupling from religion I ended my cuss diet and binged. My brain stuffed as many cuss words into my mouth as possible. I said shit and fuck in every sentence and called people dicks (under my breath) but I never could bring myself to drop the C-bomb. In my mind it was a painful word that I’d first heard used in spite. It was classed as the worst of the worst. To call someone a cunt was to insult them in one of the nastiest ways possible (unless you’re a particularly laid back Australian teenager then it’s what you call your mates, but I didn’t know that yet, I was more sheltered than a wombat in a burrow. Yes, I really just typed that).

But soon I became daring. I’ve been told that I look innocent, so I began to say it for effect. Then I began to think about it. Why is ‘cunt’ such a bad word? Why does a euphemism for vagina have to be classed as the worst of the worst? Why is the worst thing a person can be stand in for a female body part? Now I’m not going to go into the politics of it here, others have done that and a hell of a lot better than I could. I’m just saying that I consciously thought about why it was that I didn’t say ‘cunt’. Then I began to say it in my head to try and get rid of the negative connotations associated with it. I said it under my breath. I thought it about the middle-aged woman talking loudly in the quiet carriage. I sang it in my head to the tune of Diamonds by Rihanna. “Shine bright like a cunt face… shine bright like a cunt face…” Ok, so that last part’s a lie, but it improves the song somewhat, no?

So what do I do about it now? I still only say it for effect. It’s still considered by many as the worst of the worst and despite my protests I still haven’t quite gotten over the way it sounds in my mouth. Perhaps I never will, but I’m trying. For now I engage in crafty slactivism. By which I mean I stitch ‘cunt’ onto fabric and frame it. We all have our small rebellions. I’m changing the face of society, one stitch at a time. I’m sure society’s views on what is deemed offensive will change based on one woman’s Sunday afternoon craft project. Give it time.

II

Now this wasn’t an isolated binge. After my uncoupling I went through a spiritual crisis (surprise! I’m still there! Woo! Fun times! – that’s a story for another post), in that I no longer felt spiritual at all. I went from deeply religious to believing in nothing. Not even myself. I didn’t feel connected to anything. When I was religious I would go out into nature and feel this deep and profound connection to god and to the earth. It was euphoric, I used to feel almost high on the country air (later I found out that this wasn’t a connection to god, it was a connection to untreated mental illness. Yay! Woo! Fun times!). After I started taking medication, all connection to god left me and I instantly didn’t believe anymore. It hit me like a train. I felt like my upbringing had been a lie. A hurtful scam designed to make me feel less powerful as a woman, guilty about sexuality, and oh I dunno, guilty about everything else on the planet. I became bitter against Christianity and binged on all the ‘bad’ things. By which I mean I purposely littered, I didn’t hold the door for people, and I called rude customers bitches (under my breath). Did I mention I was a little strict with myself? These things felt like acts of rebellion to me. I felt powerful. I felt how Snoop Dogg (Snoop Lion? Whatever he calls himself now) must have felt smoking marijuana at the MTV awards. I felt smug as fuck. I was sinning and there wasn’t a god in the world to stop me.

So where does that leave me now? I don’t know, cunts, crouched in some dirty alley way tossing Cadbury wrappers on the ground (no I’m not, don’t litter kids, it’s bad for the environment). Still bitter, I suppose. I still can’t bring myself to stand in a church and nature just makes me sad at the loss of connectedness to the environment. But we all have our things to work on. On another day I’ll go into the story a bit more if you’d like to hear it, but for now, let’s lighten the mood with more arty fun times.

Changing the world.
Changing the world.

So my lovely cunts, what’s your small act of rebellion?

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Freudian Friday: Let’s Gingerly Drink to this Affair.

Freudian Friday meets end-o-week drinks.

Let’s make an innocent little gin get dirty. It’s Friday morning and we’ve got the whole day to suffer through before we can get our dranks on. So lets get masochistic and relieve our ennui – by daydreaming cocktail hour because I’m just fucking neurotic like that. So pull up a wobbly wooden stool in some pompous bar surrounded by eclectic hipster knickknacks, overpriced finger food, & that one staff member who always looks like they just hate the living shit out of humanity missed the bus in the rain. Cross your ankles and thoughtfully stroke your facial hair and let’s have one innocent little drink, one might even say that we deserve one because life is cruel and makes us work for a living. So suck this for an ennui remedy – The Dirty Ginger Gimlet.

Dirty (spotty) Ginger Gimlet. It'll cure what ale's ya.
Dirty (spotty) Ginger Gimlet (a young Gin Buck had sordid affair with a sweet little Gin Gimlet). It’ll cure what ale’s ya (I can’t be held responsible for that pun, I’ve been watching a lot of these laydehs lately).

Dirty Ginger Gimlet – you will need:

A highball glass packed with ice.

10-20ml Bickford’s Lime Juice Cordial (depending on how sweet you want it)

10ml Lime Juice

30ml Gin

30ml of Dry Ginger Ale

A dash of White Wine (whatever you have on hand – in my case Sauvignon Blanc)

Optional no it’s not – stay classy motherfuckers: A slice of lime to serve.

Method:

Grab your highball, fill it with ice and let’s build some adultery.

First the Cordial.

Sweet Lady Gimlet.
Sweet Lady Gimlet.

Then the lime juice. Traditionally a Gin gimlet ingredient.

Married young, the union went sour.
Married young, the union went sour.

Then your gin. I use Tanqueray because I’m a gin snob it’s magnificent.

She hit the bottle.
She hit the bottle (look at that gorgeous green – urgh, Tanq baby, I love you).

Then the dry ginger ale. Traditionally the main ingredient in a Gin Buck.

She met a young buck.
She met a young buck.

Then the White Wine (that’s what makes it all so dirty because wine tastes like shit)

and they got all birds and bees.
and they got all birds and bees.

Give it a stir and you’ve got yourself alcohol’s answer to a love child – a Dirty Ginger Gimlet.

akjbdkwdbf
and pop goes the weasel – she’s preggers with a bastard. The horror!

Now that you’ve taken a bunch of pictures of liquids imagined yourself awkwardly drinking at home alone on a Thursday night while you blog about affairs between alcoholic beverages sipping the bastard,

getting drunk home alone on a thursday night.
Adultery never looked so fresh.

you can put shit away/get back to work marvel at its makers.

Add a touch of class to your shitfaced afternoons cocktail hour.
Add a touch of class to your shitfaced afternoons/nights/lunch hour after work drinks.

and imagine yourself hypothetically maybe not having any wine stoppers, causing you to do something impractical classy like make your own out of aluminum foil an appropriate medium.

Nailed it.
Nailed it (mushroom cloud).

Or alternatively you could snap out of your psychosis just in time to learn a bunch of real traditional cocktail recipes (including the traditional Gin Buck and Gin Gimlet) from Monotone Josh and the amazing peeps at About.com

Table-Talk Tuesday: Pumpkins – no added baby.

Because all the cool kids do it.

This Table-Talk Tuesday is brought to you by food porn. Also I’ve read a lot of StraightTalkingVegetables annnd BlissfulBritt annnnd watched a lot of My Drunk Kitchen lately (which I’m sure you can tell just by the tone of this post).

So I tried to be an adult and ‘cook’. Or ‘coo – ok’ I’m not sure of the exact pronunciation, blah blah more-jokes-about-not-being-a-real-adult blah. So this happened:

realisation that you're home alone on your night off taking pictures of soup to blog about it.
I made this.

It went like this:

Vegan Creamy Pumpkin & Cauliflower Soup

I’m not pushing any agendas here. I just called it vegan because I want to sound like I know what I’m doing it has no animals in it. It also has no lactose either, if that’s helpful. Each to their own, mofos.

You Will need:

A place for cooking. Possibly even a kitchen.

Some water in a pot (enough to comfortably cover the pumpkin and cauliflower).

Some Massel awesomeness (I vote Ultracube Chicken flavor – x2 cubes).

Chicken flavor because hello – delicious (no gluten, lactose, or animal content in these babies. No baby content either).

Some Kent pumpkin (about a quarter).

Half a small cauliflower.

Dairy free butter or margarine (one level tablespoon <- that’s a dirty lie, I put a shit-load in).

With vitamin D because I don’t go outside it’s good for you.

I use Nuttlex Lite, because I’m just obnoxious like that.

A blender.

Then do this:

To make it I did some of this
Skin the pumpkin while it’s still alive. Ignore the screaming. I blurred out the violence because apparently my camera thinks my freckly wrist is more important for censorship reasons.

and

Rip it's uterus out.
Rip the uterus out. Appetizing.

and

admire the pumpkin featuses.
Admire the pumpkin fetuses.

and

Freak out about pumpkin hair.
Freak out about pumpkin hair.

and

Eventually remember what you were supposed to be doing.
Eventually remember what you’re supposed to be doing.

and

all cut up
Hack the pumpkin flesh into pretty chunks.

and do the same type of thing with the cauliflower.

Cauliflower is feeling dark and brooding.
Cauliflower is not as photogenic. Sorry cauliflower, but we can’t all be models. Truth bomb. Right there. Wisdom and cooking. It’s what I’m about.

Then make the water all bubbly-like with a kitchen heat machine. Add the pumpkin, cauliflower, stock cubes and simmer the shit out off it until everything falls apart.

Then turn off the heat contraption and let it all just chill out for a second. Maybe have one of these:

om
Sour Apple and Blood Orange Vodka Cocktail thingy. Classy as fuck.

Then stir in the fuck-tonne tablespoon of Nuttlex or whatever you’ve chosen to cream things up with and blend until it looks like someone already digested it.

TA DA! Congratulations! Hopefully, you made this:

Baby food! Sprinkled with solidified dirty tears born of the realisation that you're home alone on your night off taking pictures of soup to blog about it.
Baby food! Sprinkled with solidified dirty tears born of the realisation that you’re home alone on your night off taking pictures of soup to blog about it.

Now Instagram the shit out of it so everyone knows what you’re currently digesting eat it. Eat it all.

To eat, you will need:

A mouth.

A scooping utensil.

A camera because ‘pics or it didn’t happen’.

Step One:

First you scoop it
First you scoop it

Step Two:

The you marvel at the consistency.
Then you marvel at the consistency.
Check out that Fin Keel action there.
Check out that Fin Keel action there.

My name is Jessica Dendy. I get excited by the consistency of soup. Gentlemen form an orderly line to the left, I’ll be with you as soon as I get over having cooked something that tastes like and even resembles food.

Step Three:

Put it in your mouth (that’s what he-don’t say it. It’s all downhill from there).

Step Four:

Take the spoon out and realise you missed a bit.
Take the spoon out and realise you missed a bit, leaving your partner tongue unsatisfied.

Don’t panic. You can still exit this situation with dignity if you do exactly as I say.

Step Five:

Put it back into your mouth and suck it dry.

…What? Don’t look at me like that.

There - isn't that satisfying?
There – isn’t that satisfying?

Step Six:

Repeat until there’s no soup left.

Its easy once you get the hang of it.
It’s easy once you get the hang of it.

Make sure to clean, wash up, put the pumpkin skin in the compost.

Compost, because it's good for the enviroment.
Compost, because it makes you feel better about how much food you waste it’s good for the environment.

Table-Talk Tuesday: Melbourne Noms and Hipster City Pictures.

More Melbourne: I ate things, I have pictures to prove it.

I ate stuff and this is what it looked like (isn’t that what all the cool kids do?):

I ate this for dinner here in Melbourne because I’m an adult damn it.
My friend (yes I have friends) had sprinkles. This is an important blog-worthy detail that I need to share with you all.
I also ate this. It was nice to my tongue and mouth. Important details (I’m still trying to kick dairy – sometimes I win, sometimes I lose).
I was so excited about eating a bunch of these because…
my usual dinner is this…
Banoffi Pie is too dark and I don’t have a flash on my shitty phone so I just filtered the shit out of it dark and tortured, because I’m an artist damn it.
I also tried to take a picture of it digesting but the lens kept fogging up (so, like, ironic). Clearly I fail as an artist.
Time Out. Home of hot indie men and good pie. But mostly hot indie men.
I don’t know what this is but I love it (that’s a lie, I tried to love it, we had a thing, but decided that ultimately we’re better off just being friends. Also I got a weird paint rash. Wot).

 

Table-Talk Tuesday: Part 1 – Un-dating and levels of intensity

The universe is a wonderful jerk – Part One

Stop. Confetti time. I’m graduating this December.

It’s all happening. New beginnings, new phases of life. Happy Marc-Jacobs-ad-fields-of-flowers euphoria times; dating people, un-dating people, roommates moving out, intense family times, the threat of jingle bells, birthdays, weird neighbors, funky bars and  parties, being slightly less anti-social than usual. Lots of exciting things.

Right. So. I’m not good with feelings. “What?! I don’t believe that for a second!” says no one who knows me. So I’ve developed various methods of coping with these stressors and if you have similar goings on or just want a sarcastic guide to getting through break ups/holidays/family events/life changing moments without ripping your eye lashes out one at a time then read on.

I wrote this to seem less narcissistic just for you.

How to deal with un-dating someone: 

Step 1 – Locate heart-wrenching love song.

Step 2 – Apply extreme levels of cynicism.

Example:

1. Adele. Any Adele track.

I love Adele. But in these tough and trying times, you just have to take a step back. Whether her lyrics make sense or not, I firmly believe that a correctly timed Adele record has the power to pickle eight month fetuses in despair thick enough to drive them into the arms of hard liquor as soon as they’re born. Imagine a maternity ward full of tiny wrinkly newborns refusing the boob and reaching their stubby little hands desperately into the overworked nurse’s pockets for cigarettes. This isn’t normal, but on Adele it is.

Moving on.

Take your Adele track – I chose ‘Set fire to the rain’ because it is one of the most ridiculous songs of all time – now listen to the words very carefully – or read them, because there’s no audio here.

“But I set fire to the rain,
Watched it pour as I touched your face,
Well, it burned while I cried
‘Cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name!

I set fire to the rain
And I threw us into the flames
When we fell, something died
‘Cause I knew that that was the last time, the last time!”

– Set fire to the rain, Adele.

2. Apply extreme cynicism. This is not hard.

You can not physically set fire to rain.

Even as a metaphor for erasing the pain of the past it’s weak as fuck – but for the sake of entertainment lets stick to the literal interpretation. There is no room for a balanced view here, these are desperate times. I’m not sure why she needs to touch their face as she watches her lighter go out in the rain that IS NOT BURNING in front of her. I feel like if I were her partner, this would be a defining moment in our post-relationship communications. I would possibly entertain the idea that she is not coping with this particular change of circumstances and perhaps refer her to some sort of professional.

Is the rain is screaming your ex-lover’s name as it burns? Oh it is? Perhaps you should put down the bath salts before you eat someone’s face.

Threw. Into. Flames. Rain flames. Something died. Last time. Rain flames.

STOP. Just stop. Adele, come on. Come on now Adele. Adele, Come on. No one thinks this is deep. You’re not rolling in the deep. You’re rolling in the run-out-of-metaphors-for-being-a-hot-mess. That is all.

Congratulations – you can now survive an Adele song. And sometimes, that’s half the battle.

Moving on.

How to deal with your roommate moving out:

If you’re like me and are a self-made, self-confessed, proud as punch loner fine with being alone, you won’t have a problem. Be sad that they’re gone but excited to have the Hermit Skank Pad (Skank pad… nothing to read into there… moving on) all to yourself. If you’re not like me and weirdly need 90% of your time filled with the noise, sweat and stench of regular human contact, read on.

Step 1. CATS. Practice your cat hoarder skills. Collect ’em all. Dress ’em up. Mumble to yourself. Twitch a little. Build the Sydney Harbour Bridge out of hairballs. There is no one to judge you but cats and the occasional pizza delivery guy, and they’ve probably seen worse at my house anyway.

Step 2. Internet. There is nothing it can’t solve. Learn how to do things on YouTube. Watch documentaries on how hotdogs are made, have hideous meat dreams and then become a vegetarian. Watch back to back episodes of Epic Meal Time and shot vodka every time Harley pulls a serial killer face. Watch viral videos and cry about the state of the world.

Step 3. Porn, I mean reality TV, I mean talking to your cat, I mean becoming an internet troll, I mean Wikipedia editor, I mean… blog on a variety of topics to entertain yourself a small audience.

Step 4. Put a bitch spin on nanna hobbies. Eg: cross-stitch cuss words on to cushions or frame your creations and give them to your family for Christmas (Spoilers: Joshua, I hope you like vagina euphemism-themed home decor).

Step 5. Alcohol, 1950’s style. In tea pots. At a tiny table. With egg cups full of caterpillars.  With your cat dressed in a bonnet. With you dressed in a bonnet. So you can feel proper when you’re getting properly hammered. Alice in wonderland fo’ life mother fuckers!

Bonnets. They’re a bad sign.

Step 6. Exercise. It’s good for you and it relieves stress. Seriously.

Commercial break – Hipster pictures:

My cactus is flowering… And this plant is in bloom too. Who says I can’t grow things (everyone)?
I call it ‘sexual frustration in overcast’. Deep as fuck.
Whimsical fox does whimsical things in a plant pot.

Back to our regular programming.

The Dos and Don’ts of awkward ideological clashes with a friend or loved one:

Depending on the level of intensity…

A family member strongly expresses intolerance towards your religion/lack of religion

Do – respectfully assert your right to believe what you want, agree to disagree and exit the situation.

Don’t – Mock their deity. Don’t talk about imaginary friends. Don’t quote religious texts. Avoid comments on their religious leaders dress sense. Don’t be patronising and avoid sarcasm.

Political differences with a friend

Do – have an adult discussion involving the calm exchange of ideas.

Don’t – yell “treason!” at the top of your lungs.

Psychotic levels of bigotry from someone close to you –

Do – Call them out on their behavior and try to separate the problematic view from them as a person to minimise blame and facilitate a healthy dialogue on the topic.

Don’t – Call them a ‘redneck’.

And so ends part one. Tune in next week for more fun ‘how to cope’ advice for real life hypothetical situations written for DIY therapy your entertainment.

Next week: Christmas carols ruin lives, Please return your ‘I’m a real adult’ card, Hanging out in Bars Vs the National Geographic Channel, and People who give birth close to Christmas are pricks.