Valentine’s Day Scrapbook

What did you suckers do on Valentine’s day?

Did you make a valentine’s day scrapbook? Well you should have, and it should have gone something like this:

Read passionate love notes.
Read passionate love notes.
Be relentlessly pursued by your hot date.
Be relentlessly pursued by your hot date.
Chronicle said dates uncontrollable excitement at the chance to go out with you.
Chronicle said date’s uncontollable excitement at the chance to go out with you.
Go for long walks on the harbour with your long suffering roomate.
Long walks on the harbor with your similarly single long-suffering roommate hot person of interest (cameo by ghost knee).
Send a picture of flowers you found in the mall to your lover friend.
Buy, pick, borrow, or steal send a picture of flowers you found in the mall gardens to your friend workmate studybuddy lover.
Kiss hold hands stare awkwardly at the romantic harbour lights.
Yawn Kissing and stare awkwardly hold hands while you look at the romantic harbor lights.
Romantically watch rabbits stuff their tiny faces with lush grass metres away from the certain death of a busy road.
Romantically watch romantic rabbits stuff their tiny romantic-furred faces with lush grass metres away from the romantic certain death of a busy road.

There are rabbits there. If you squint. Look, I can’t do all the work. Use your imagination, romantic parasite-infested beasts of fluffy destruction – small enough and cute enough to make you regress to infantile exclamations of joy. Imagine it. Get involved.

Romantically race a romantic leaf down a picturesque water feature in the mall in some fantastically classy place.
Romantic shit
Squat precariously in the dark to take hipster photos of a seed, some bird shit, a slug, or other romantic subjects while your long suffering roommate hot date laughs at your bizarre behavior marvels at your artistic genius.

That, dear friends, is how you have a glorious Valentine’s Day.


Writerly Wednesday: Low IQ, cupcakes and STIs.

Format Error: No Brain Found.

Is that a real error? Moving on.

So to continue this week’s theme of no-brow entertainment, Writerly Wednesday has been hijacked by sugar because I ate cupcakes for dinner last night I’m cutesy like that.

Yesterday was my roommate’s birthday. She is cuter than baby buttons on a bow tie around the neck of a teacup puppy. So we had cupcakes for dinner, because we’re real adults.

Pink icing is for suckers.

Now, unpopular opinion: I hate cupcakes. I’m not a fan of icing or frosting or whatever-the-fuck. I’m not girly. In fact I learnt about hair and make-up and gettin all girlyfied from YouTube. I’m a muffin fan. Plan ‘ol muffins.

Keanu Reeves isn’t sure about cupcakes either. But let’s be honest, Keanu doesn’t look he’s sure of anything in this picture (don’t worry Keanu, the Matrix did that to everyone). Image courtesy of

I feel like cupcakes are muffins with some sort of awful discharge that they’ve ignored and it’s all just gotten out of hand.

Go to the gyno cupcakes, for everyone’s sake.

That looks like it itches. Image courtesy of unprotected sex

Wait-what? Moving on.

It’s not that I don’t understand the appeal of cupcakes. In many ways they sound like my kind of thing. Tiny. Decorative. Filled with sugar. My problem is they’re just a huge anti-climax. You work yourself up into delirious excitement at the thought of eating this:

For the love of god. I don’t want to eat them. I want to frame them and put them on the mantel piece that I don’t have. Image courtesy of

But when you bite into them they taste like this:

Not a culinary wonderland. Image courtesy of

They just never taste as good as they look. They set you up with false expectations from the start.

They start out really nice, they take you out to dinner and you laugh and joke like old times, you start thinking maybe you could give this another go, maybe things have changed. Then they criticise your lack of consistency and your need for freedom and you realise the icing isn’t what you thought it was, it’s too gritty, even for you. What you thought was a soft inner layer of chocolate cake is actually dry and humorless. Looking at them now you realise they were never that attractive to begin with. The sweetness is artificial and their manic color leaves marks that will take weeks to remove from your heart tablecloth.

Wait-what? Moving on.

Long story short: don’t eat cupcakes. They have a martyr complex are bad for you.

Jokes aside, some cupcakes are down right scary, and I’m not referring to these:

STI cupcakes. They actually exist. Still more appealing than pink icing. Image courtesy of

I’m talking about the ones that are designed to be adorable with cute little faces. The kind of cakes people make just so they can Instagram how adorable they are their creations are. Only it ends up giving you the impression that if you stare at the cupcakes for too long they’ll reach inside you and rip out your soul.

Don’t look directly into their eyes. Image courtesy of

The kind of blank stare and creepy smile that feeds on your willingness to look like a homemaker while simultaneously shitting bad luck from every sugared molecule.

As with a lot of my food these days, I’d rather my confectionery didn’t have a face. Thanks all the same.

What is the moral of this Writerly Wednesday story? I have no idea. I’m still trying to get a full night’s sleep without waking up in a cold sweat thinking there’s an assessment due tomorrow.

Want more disgusting cupcakes that look like diseases? Sure you do! Click here and here and here.

Finally, I’m going to leave you with this little morsel in the hopes that you’ll make sense of it, because I sure as hell can’t.

Wot. Image courtesy of my nightmares