There is no better feeling in the world than that of hearing a white person say “Urethra Franklin” in complete sincerity.

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WRITING IDEA: I take the title of a mediocre bestseller, change it slightly to make it more interesting, and use that as a writing prompt for short stories.

 

• My Sister’s Beekeeper: no longer a tragedy about middle class white people breeding in order to have a source from which to harvest human tissue. Now a tragedy about middle class white people and the one apiarist who recklessly encourages them to consume an excess of bee products as a misguided solution to possible bee extinction.

 

• Meet Gay Glove: the adventures of a left-handed glove who dreamed of holding more than his right-handed carbon copy. An erotic story about desire, breaking social norms, and sensuality in the sock drawer.

 

• Fifty Fucking Thousand Shades of Grey: one child’s excruciating journey with his parents into the home decorating aisles at the hardware store. A story of depression, rebellion and the colour schemes of life.

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I wonder if Hannibal can detect new foetus smell.

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Your favourite Lizzie Maguire character does not, in fact, say much about you at all. Neither does your eyeliner style, your toast preference, or your go-to flirty emoji choice. The same, however, cannot be said for your affinity for online quizzes which prey on the insecurity of your youth.

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While waiting at an intersection a mutant wasp flew through the open window and landed on my steering wheel. My first instinct was to empty my pockets, relinquish my valuables, and raise my hands in surrender because this shit is just about the only thing in life I have no choice but to take seriously every damn time. Trust me. We could render crime extinct if wasps could apply for tax file numbers and we could fashion police badges little enough for their teeny tiny demon-spawned lapels.

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I don’t like horses because they can’t see behind themselves and their solution to this evolutionary limitation of their species is to kick backwards wildly every time they sense anything uncertain getting too close within their peripheral surroundings. And everyone just accepts this as a part of nature, but when I do it I am apparently a rogue and a menace to society.

 

I don’t like horses but I envy them so.

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I love when people write Prima Donna as “Pre-Madonna” because it’s such a hopeful dream for the future. Aren’t we all just at the Pre-Madonna phase of our existence, yet to aggressively vogue our way to victory? Like a virgin, yet to be prized the ultimate glory of a disappointment and awkwardness unlike any before. Or just like the little prayer of a little heretic, yet to crash upon the ears of a papa preaching for his own rendition of apocalypse.

 

Madonna is the only one so far who has reached the nirvana of full-blown Madonna. But fear not, Pre-Madonnas, for this destiny is written for you in stars and spelling errors.

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The only hot single in your area is a slice of cheese pizza, and you’d better be fucking grateful for it.

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Why do foetuses apply genetic makeup before getting their ultrasound photos taken?

So they can look placentable.

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If you ever feel embarrassed about farting on the train, just remember that having a personality is basically like having a fart that you can never hold in. Sometimes it may emerge more pungently than on other occasions, but ultimately you ought to own those fecal particles of your being. Your existential stank is that of sweet liberated buttholes.

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If you were trapped underneath a truck, your mom would probably get a crazy adrenalin rush that she would use just to save you, despite her undeniable temptation to instead kick some sick ollies with Tony Hawk or to effortlessly overcome the anaphylactic reaction of her choice.

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Instead of giving people balloons on celebratory occasions, send them audio clips of yourself breathing heavily. It will capture the spirit of balloons but in a way that is down and hip and minty phresh to suit this technologically advanced generation. Let life take your breath away so you can slide it down an earhole.

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Chew like you’ve got a secret. Scratch your balls like you’ve isolated the cancer-causing gene. Leak industrial waste from every orifice as if you don’t believe in global warming. Live every day like you really did stop Kony. Lay an egg.

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I like in that song Backstreet’s Back Alright where a backstreet boy says “Am I sexual?” and then a homie says “Yeeeaa-ah!” in complete sincerity, because men should be able to admire other men honestly and express care towards each other without being discouraged by the socially conditioned restraints of stereotypical masculinity. Genuine male friendship is important. Obsolete and traditional ideals favouring machoism hurt the social progress of men as well as other genders.

 

Tell a homie you love him. Tell a homie he’s sexual.

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Wank before every major life decision. Especially if the major life decision is whether or not to wank.

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If we stitched every abandoned foreskin from the history of mankind into a large quilt, it could keep us all warm and interconnected. And yet, foreskins refuse to become vestigial, and quilts are reluctant at best to emerge from the detritus of a human byproduct. Accept nothing less for yourself either, friend.

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Insecure, intolerant heterosexuals just need love, preferably in the form of a tight embrace while you whisper seductively in their ear, “…yes homo”.

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HOW TO DEAL WITH BEING CALLED A PET NAME:

 

• Baby: call them a neonate or a geriatric and when they question you, either scream loudly or poop violently. “Hey fellow neonate, how’s life without object permanence because it’s lookin’ pretty good from where I’m laying idly because I cannot support the weight of my head” is guaranteed to get her wanting the d(iapers)

 

• Babe: don’t forget to use your manners and say “thank you, Airbud 5: Spikes Back”. If they question this, please explain that you thought the game was to call each other by animal protagonists from 90s family feelgood movies

 

• Sweetheart: why not change it up with “bitterballs” or “sourbowel” for a fun new spin on an old classic

 

• Darl: if an Australian says this, they will inevitably say “Daaahhl”. Respond to this with the surname of your favourite childhood author (or second favourite if your first does in fact happen to be Roald Dahl)

 

 

 

Alex Creece is an old soul that is covered in glitter and wrapped in a vest. She loves rain, games, and animals. Alex has been published in Literary Orphans, the Molotov Cocktail and Maudlin House, as well as others. She has a website at creecedpaper.com.