Perpetual Discombobulation

Please, for the love of God, learn to take notes with a pen and leave your whirring heat-generators at home. I sincerely hope you spill your coffee on your keyboard in your academic frenzy and cause the blasted thing to fizzle and die.

There is nothing more irritating than sitting in a lecture with the incessant drumming of ten fingers on plastic a thousand times over, right in your ear. The sharp plastic "tap", punctuated by the frequent "tick" of the space bar, comparable to fifteen people having a simultaneous pen-clicking marathon in your immediate vicinity, are enough to drive any decent person insane. I am one of those who takes notes the old fashioned and reliable way, pen-to-paper and, as such, I am frequently annoyed by this background aural abuse, which at worst constantly distracts me from what the lecturer is saying, and at best causes me to wish desperately I could swing around in my seat and violently slam the lid of the laptop shut on those flying fingers.

The worst part about it is the sudden periods of typing-silence in which the lecturer makes filler comments in order to support the main points. Any significant point is immediately seized by the ravenous recommencement of clattering keys, as if the typist is loudly proclaiming, to the entire lecture theatre, their immediate comprehension and due noting of the point at hand, which only ends up seeming like so much unnecessary pomp and show.

The reader must not think that my hatred of lecture typists stems from my own lack of a laptop with which I, too, could take notes. On the contrary, I am presently in possession of such a device and have found it nothing but a detriment to my education. Not only do I fail to pay proper attention during lectures due to the sheer abundance of distractions a laptop yields: Facebook, Solitaire, MSN, Tetris, to name a few - I find that the notes I take using it are frequently less informative and detailed than those I take down on paper, due not only to the large number of diversions and unnecessary word processor features that frequently intervene, uninvited; but also to my innate need to immediately correct all typing errors and an acute self-consciousness regarding the amount of noise I am generating in the act of typing.

I propose the immediate prohibition of laptops in lecture theatres. Not only are they inherently disruptive to those who have to sit and listen to them being used, they doubtless fail to distract their own users in manners too numerous to count and only serve to interfere in the entire note-taking process. Perhaps tomorrow I will bring my typewriter to a lecture and sit behind the worst of the pummelling typists so they can get a taste of their own medicine.

Buy a fucking pen.

Yours sincerely,
cobweb_lace.

I think the__seeker  wanted me to make this entry about him as it was to this particular LiveJournal user that I was lately complaining of writers' block. Then again, I recall complaining to a couple of other people about my writers' block so perhaps this entry should also be about those particular individuals. Or perhaps about none of them. Or perhaps some of them, in passing.

The lack of journal-updating recently is largely due to my own apathy and a noticable absence of a suitable imagination from which I can conjure up words to artfully describe recent events or thoughts. It also stems from the lack of readership interest I automatically assume these events and thoughts would generate, and so to prevent wasting valuable Internet space with a disinteresting monologue I have instead opted to stifle my output.

No more! As I am updating! See?

When I moved out of the Village in late November it was to inadvertently leave my copy of "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Vol. 1" in the hands of an American of alleged femininity with a certain fondness for canned aromas. For this unfortunate occurrence I ought to apologise to Mr. Alan Moore, as I know his work will not be appreciated in hands such as those, nor, I am sure, would he appreciate the canned aromas (I, certainly, did not.) However, the sadness of this loss has been in some ways offset by my steady acquisition of various other volumes which are at present inhabiting a bookshelf in the room of my latest living-space, with a vague sort of cataloguing system in evidence. I am at present continually compiling every new book I acquire into an alphabetised and somewhat obsessive list. Speaking of lists, here is one for your enjoyment:

• http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nikolai_Dzhumagaliev
• post letters
• get an RSA certificate
• Up until last year, I was able to see Magic Eye images very easily. For some reason, and much to my dismay, I now no longer can. I am greatly hoping this ability can be regained with practice.
• iTunes has vintage SciFi radio broadcasts available for free.
• I am Manager of the card shop next week while the real manager is locked inside the escalators Bunburying in Queensland.
• Guess who has become yet another B. Arts student? Here's hoping the History department appreciated my "conceptually esoteric" nature more than the Graphic Designers did.

And on an entirely unrelated note, imajica_lj is not allowed to drink all the Nesquik, by order of the Mantis.

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It has been about a month since I last did my laundry and somehow I still seem to have enough clean clothes - but I doubt for much longer!
I've taken on two tutoring positions in addition to my retail job and although yes, it's extra money, I am very mindful of the fact that I am working three jobs and still not able to pay my own rent. Money (or lack thereof) makes me very angry. Photography is expensive, for one, and is a major contributor to my financial drama. I wrote a nice letter to the scholarship people but apparently I'm not allowed anything from them until September, when it will be useless for these purposes. Then again, I'm not adverse to the idea of putting it all aside and then going to Europe for a good long while.

Sometimes I feel I just need to get away from what has become routine. Faceless city people; city life. Not pining for country life as much as I am for some quiet seclusion and contemplation.

It's been raining a lot lately, which is nice. This evening, however, I have a trek to make from Huntingdale Station and I doubt that the contents of my backpack will survive the trip without being subjected to some significant dampening along the way. Rain is best in summer when the weather scorches and you can't do anything else but lie there as a puddle of lethargic flesh. I still recall the stroll I took in January through the Melbourne University campus at midnight in the rain, walking until I very definitely could not feel my extremities, and then shivering my way back home to make chai and piling on towels over sodden clothing. I wonder if such things will come to pass in the summer to be; I am hoping very much that they do but I have small doubts upon the subject.

Lately, I feel like nothing at all. (Hello, emo! No wonder I still keep this thing...)
The momentum that started me off at uni is beginning to wane as I look at the work of other people and wonder how I can ever compare. My enthusiasm for History class remains strong, however; my father is planning on attending my lecture tomorrow morning which should prove to be extremely interesting. People are likely to think he's a history teacher anyway, and assume that I'm hobnobbing with the academic greats when really it's just my Dad being interested in what I've told him of the subject. Wonder how long I can keep up this pretence? :P

I also wonder how long I can keep doing what I'm doing before the bomb falls. Some days it seems to elbow its way rather violently into the spectrum of my thoughts; other days it's almost as if it's not there at all. I am balancing.

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Dear English-speaking world;

I find it nigh on impossible to take seriously the opinion of anybody who peppers their speech with unnecessary and contextually irrelevant uses of the word "like", no matter how considered or intelligent said opinion actually is. The overuse of the word "like" is a blight upon the English language and steps should be collectively taken to eradicate irrelevant use of it lest we all drown in the Unintelligible Sea.
To give you a picture of the extent to which this linguistic plague has spread, my very-nearly-sixty-year-old father has been heard upon many an occasion in recent times to have used the word where it was not necessary. This man is not a hip, about-the-town type; he is an honest, hard-working farmer living in an incredibly isolated rural area and yet - THE PLAGUE HAS SPREAD THIS FAR!
I admit I am not perfect. I have been known to misuse the word "like" in my own conversation, although of late I have been taking steps to remove it from my vernacular wherever unneeded. This, however, is a call to all intelligent people to stop sounding like ignoramuses and make an attempt to be more eloquent in your speech. Using the word "like" has the unavoidable effect of making you sound, like, stupid.

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Many-a thing has transpired since my last update:

• old roommate moved out; new roommate moved in, bringing with her some interesting tales and a fridgeful of various condiments.
• I had my holidays and spent them either working or gallavanting about; drinking less alcohol than I thought I would; not actually spending that much time in NSW; travelling up to country Victoria for a couple of days; being cold; being warm; sleeping at normal hours; seeing Get Smart three times due to circumstance and basically enjoying the death of the first semester, which was an extraordinary bore, for the most part.
  
• speaking of first semester, I passed everything, even managing a High Distinction in Art Theory, about which I was quite pleased.
• and now second semester has started. I am at present in the university library with papers spread before me and the low buzz of student voices in the background, contemplating lunch and book-borrowing. This semester is better than last semester to the power of seventy-seven. I am enjoying all of my units so much, even though the expenses associated with Photomedia are presently breaking me (film @ $12 a roll; processing @ $8 a roll, at least once a week if not twice or three times). Typography proves interesting; Graphic Design Studio is infinitely more relevant and interesting than the droll Generic Design Studio of last semester; studying Renaissance European History was one of the best decisions I have made this year, and everything it promised to be. I'm trying to spend more time on-campus; it's incredibly difficult to study at home. I need to lift my game.
  
• met some interesting people in my units this semester, and finally I get to know exactly who my fellow Vis. Comm. first years are.
• still thinking about moving. Lease is up in November and as yet I've nowhere to go, but the ideas are out there, coalescing slowly.
• I have a mild cold that I think I caught off of my roommate. Or possibly from walking in the rain a couple of days in a row.
• I need groceries. We're out of bread, milk, cheese, eggs, butter, tea and meat. I shall go to ALDI soon enough.
• You should all watch Clone High; it is incredibly amusing. I don't think they air it in this country.
• That may or may not be about it for now. If I think of anything I shall be sure to let you know of it.
  

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"Your hair colour looks nice," said my roommate this morning upon encountering me in the kitchen, "it matches the sink."
"Thanks," I replied, somewhat hesitantly. I was unable to tell whether or not she was having a go at me.

LESSON LEARNED: never ever use hair fudge to dye your hair by yourself when the bathroom is mostly white and the dye is mostly purple and you have an apartment inspection the following day and no bleach with which to rectify the damage.

However, I do now have hair of a rather nice shade which appears to be a cross between violet and blueberry.

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Tonight was the second time I dreamt about the man with a wedge cut out of his head. When you looked at him it was possible for your eyes to trace the contours in his nasal passages and your vision to nestle within the crevices in his brain. He covered over the space with plastic wrap and splashes of white paint, but the inner workings of his head were still plainly visible and he wore a mask over his face; perhaps he thought it would lessen the impact. He was about to kill his son; he stalked him through rooms full of multi-coloured mechanical dolls straight out of a Futurist painting that juddered to attention as he entered and collapsed in heaps as he passed.

My alarm rang at 4am with his hands around his son's throat.

I have come to realise recently that midnight hallucinations or bouts of irrational paranoia have become a hallmark of this year. The first one I ever had found me at 2am curled on Ryan's kitchen floor in Adelaide, eyes wide open and talking to myself very quietly (in case it heard me) to keep myself company, convinced that there was something in the corridor about to pounce. Dave rescued me and spent the better part of the night gently reiterating that there was nothing out there until eventually, I slept. Nothing happened on that front again for a while.

It's happened a couple more times since then. The most recent was at five this morning, when, out in the corridor, waiting to be admitted to the room, I was convinced the door to 331 was going to violently open and something was going to leap out and deprive me of a throat while the Coco Pops fell from my right hand and spilled onto the hallway carpet. When the lights are on, however, it's not so intense. For a while when I was at work I always hesitated slightly before entering the service elevators incase there were axe-wielding maniacs hiding behind my line of sight, waiting to hack me to pieces in the small steel box with the camera looking on. Half of it was the fluorescent light.

I don't even know why I'm writing about this here, but I think it may be in the hopes that being open about it might make it stop. It's nothing terrible at the moment but I don't want it to escalate and lately I've been anxious more frequently and attempting to sleep at night can often make me feel as though I'm about to throw myself head-first into a void. An inverse void that will have me falling into the sky above me indefinitely. Daysleeping presents absolutely no problems except that sometimes I miss class.

Weather continues charming.

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I sometimes wonder if there is a presence in my head, outside of myself, that tells me what to do.
Looking back on some of the things I've written/drawn/accomplished, it doesn't actually seem that I myself have achieved these things.
I have recently discovered that I get the best marks on assignments I have knocked together the night before, full of Guinness; sleep deprived; staring at the pages through glasses and the 4:30am haze that accompanies the attempt to do anything productive at such hours. Premeditated academic pursuits, on the other hand, do not yield such decent marks. The things I write when I'm half asleep seem to some to have an air of being more profound than those that are penned in a blaze of coherent wakefulness. Perhaps this is why such great music and art came out of an era marked by heavy use of marijuana and acid. Perhaps distance from one's self, to stand back and let the other presence work, is the only real way to go about creating something truly great.
Perhaps premeditation inhibits us all.
This presence is the core of your self. Perhaps even tentatively identified as the subconscious. Maybe it should be allowed reign a little more upon occasion; it knows me better than I know myself.

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I highly doubt that humanity will be able to settle other planets before Earth becomes uninhabitable; there is also a large query regarding whether or not mankind has actually ever set foot on the moon. If we are unable at this point to achieve that goal, it makes it extremely unlikely that we'll get to other galaxies and start colonising in time. Therefore, humanity will inevitably die out. The sun will swell and explode; the Earth will vanish into the arms of the cosmos and all human achievement; every word Shakespeare ever penned; everything da Vinci invented; every canvas that René Magritte ever put a brush to; every John Wyndham novel will be for naught.
By extension of this fact: nobody has any sound reason to panic about impending exams because, in the Grand Scheme of Things, nothing matters. You could flunk and you'd still be just as dead and insignificant as the guy that got the top score and went on to become a famous neurosurgeon.
I, on the other hand, am living a life of complacency. I have no impending exams. Therefore it is only logical that my words and deeds shall resound throughout the universe for all eternity.

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On the eighth day, the Lord descended from the Heavens to the Earth and approached the student, saying unto her:

    My child, it is two in the morning. Surely thou shouldst sleep now, for the day ahead shall be full of lectures and commutes and social interactions of varying and troublesome natures. The Lord hath designed sleep so that thou may rest and be refreshed for the day ahead.

And the student heard his words, and understood. But she turned unto the Lord and spake thusly:

    Father, I hear and understand what You are saying. But You understand not the joys of Facebook and MySpace at such an hour; an hour uninhabited by normal folk, within which one is free to surf unfettered. You understand not the ways in which reading Lovecraftian tales at such times can bring upon one feelings of utmost dread and terror akin to nothing felt during waking hours. You understand not the subtle art of frittering away the night in erasing parts of images, pixel by pixel, in Adobe Photoshop CS3 so that one may have a nice clean image of a unicycle which one may subsequently add to the photomontage they are completing for Multimedia class. You created the Earth and the Heavens, Lord, but it seems You understand none of these things.

The Lord was shocked at the student's impertinence, and said to her:

    Long though these hours are, and blissful as they may be, devoid of plentiful human contact wherein one may pursue leisurely activities at one's will, I forbid thee to do this many nights in a row. It is most detrimental to thy health. Thy lecture is at 10am tomorrow. Thou knowest thou must be up at eight in order to attend the lecture on time; thou knowest it is important beyond any Facebook stalkery thou hast planned; beyond any fantastical tale thy plans involve reading. Sleep now, my child, for thou art stupid and shall sport upon thy visage dreadful bags beneath thine eyes upon the coming of the dawn.

And the student heard his words, and again understood. Grudgingly she relented unto the will of the Lord; logged off; located sleeping attire; buried herself beneath a doona and slipped at once into dreams far more fantastical than anything Lovecraft had ever penned. But in her heart of hearts the student knew that she would be having this debate with The Almighty for many a night to come, for the temptations of the small hours were far too strong for a soul such as hers to resist for long.

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One thing I find quite interesting about life is that karma seems to actually come good now and then. Today, for instance.
Picture Melbourne Central Station at around 2:30pm. I stood there, pleased with the cold weather and on my way to an afternoon lecture when I suddenly realised I was screamingly hungry. At a quick calculation I figured I had about six dollars' worth of small change in my wallet, to last me until Wednesday; to remedy this hunger I was prepared to depart with a proportion of it for a sliver of confectionery from the vending machine.
I glanced up at the television display. Six minutes until train. Time to decide.
Three minutes passed in which I discussed with myself the merits of Snickers vs. Nobby's Peanuts in rather a more in-depth manner than anybody who is not a student would ever consider delving into the matter. In the end I settled upon a small packet of M&Ms for two dollars fifty; figuring they might keep me entertained during the lecture. I drew out the relevant change; fed it into the machine; made my selection. The mechanisms within whirred. My packet of M&Ms juddered, moved to the very edge of the shelf; teetered there between plastic and empty space... and remained.
I had been cheated by a machine.
They had bolted the fucking thing to the floor and, not being in the mood to bodyslam the plexiglass that seperated me from my withheld nourishment, after a couple of futile rattles to the side of the steel beast I settled instead for a swift bout of existential debate and fury at the Smith's chips company for manufacturing such unpleasant, soul-destroying machines. Somewhat dejectedly, I turned towards the platform again. Two minutes until train. I hoisted my bag back on to my shoulder.
Suddenly, as my wandering eyes turned from idling commuter to escalator to half-empty seat, I spied beside the drinks machine an unopened bottle of Solo. Hardly daring to believe this luck, I furtively dashed over and took the thing in my hand, confirming that the seal was, in fact, intact. Not only that, but the bottle was still reasonably cold. And worth two-seventy.
The forces that be had just saved me twenty cents.
One minute until train.

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Today I petulantly stalked the Monash Clayton grounds in search of an answer.
The answer to the question of the future direction of my academic pursuits.
I have found of late that my present course of study has rendered me academically dispassionate and intellectually stagnant.
I enjoy the creativity but I find no challenge in it at all.
I find conversations with my associates repeating themselves and turning to murk.
I found, much to my horror, that I have been studying alongside people who have never heard of Communism before.
Therefore, I have decided that the time is ripe for me to do something about this, whether it be pursuing a single unit of study in an area completely unrelated to design, or by switching degrees mid-year. I went to Clayton in my cheap K-Mart trenchcoat and the boots that clop when I walk (and induce feelings of adulthood in me even though it's just the sound of plastic on concrete as I perambulate), in order to investigate.
What I found was something called campus culture; an astounding concept that I had completely forgotten existed as I embarked upon my Caulfield experience (Caulfield being a campus which I have found to be completely lacking in anything approaching a sense of student unity or communal spirit - or maybe it's just that I have become a first-class snob and refuse to associate with people there; thereby missing out on the whole shebang in favour of stalking the 700s section of the library). At Clayton, there appears to be a sort of atmosphere. It is a place second-year students get lost in (I witnessed this phenomenon first-hand). I could navigate my way around Caulfield campus blindfolded by the end of my second day there.
My time at Clayton was also marked by being collided with; ambushed by; sandwiched between; prodded inquisitively at and generally made to interact with a significant proportion of my old classmates, many of whom I had not expected to see and most of whom with which the experience was a most pleasant and welcome one. Academic commitments permitting, perhaps I shall be travelling out to Clayton more often this semester? But I digress.

Long story short: I am in the midst of deep consideration and I am finding it delicious. Credible contributions to this debate are completely welcome; if you have suggestions for elective units or thoughts on the matter at all, voice them. Typographically.

There are certain people that I really have to stop stalking on MySpace and Facebook.

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Fuck the Brumby government.
http://www.theage.com.au/news/national/graffiti-vandals-cop-serious-spray/2008/04/17/1208025344552.html

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I have become... a tea drinker!

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Right at present I feel more settled with myself than I have in ages. This had better not be a product of the fumes I am inhaling secondhand from two floors down or I will be most disappointed. Maybe it's because I'm far too exhausted at the moment to feel anything else. Whatever it is, I shall enjoy it before it decides to evaporate; this isn't the type of peace with one's self that I normally experience; it evokes a feeling of something much older. I can't explain; maybe if I ever figure out how to I'll never be able to experience it again. Apparently if you Google "Google", the Internet will explode.*

Went to a gig this evening. With a somewhat eclectic line-up we sat in a large room at a small table; I had overpriced bourbon and discussed street sign theft with the drummer. She thought I was on a trip because I kept staring at my hands. Truth be told, I can no longer see objects; only blocks of light and shade. Hands are multi-faceted and they fascinate me intensely.

On the walk home, in the midst of gesticulating, a drop of water hit me on the hand and without warning it began to rain. I had an urge to run to the park and lie on the grass; let the drops hit my face and soak my clothes... but said urge was swiftly repressed; I would have fallen asleep there, melted into the grass and never be seen again. Tonight I'm not in the mood for disappearing completely; I've a feeling tomorrow could be interesting. Last night and sleep and I didn't really connect at all, which was marvellous. Today the space-time continuum was muted in favour of my increasingly erratic inner monologue. Dialogue. I like having conversations with myself in my head - but if I'm replying to myself, does that make it monologue or dialogue? A dialogue has two parts and although both parts are me speaking, it feels like an exchange rather than a speech.

Yesterday I went grocery shopping and accidentally left a bag behind. I wonder if they'll believe me if I tell them that a bottle of bleach; a tube of toothpaste and ten Earl Grey tea bags in that shop actually belong to me.

I'd like to collect a pile of sticks and old work and start a small fire in my room to warm my feet by, but somehow I doubt Management would be very impressed. They're generally not impressed by much. Not even blue cars. Speaking of blue, gouache paint is made of actual pigment and ground up pieces of malice. It was expensive, to begin with, but "designers" often apparently get anal about the correct application of this sort of paint - flat; no blending; mixed properly. It also doesn't help with my application that I can't afford their fancy nine-dollar paintbrushes with which to apply said paint; I use these things that barely cost me nineteen cents per brush and they scatter bristles through my work like confetti at a wedding. Subsequent tens of late-night minutes are spent vainly trying to remove the bristles from my work. Subsequent days after that are spent trying to remove the paint from under my fingernails. Right now my right thumbnail looks like I used it to murder somebody. Perhaps I did. Perhaps I will.

Right now, I want to find a place to build either my Secret Treehouse of Ultimate Awesome or my Underground Lair. My intense desire to have either or both of these places has diminished not at all since I was five. It's either that or my secret room which there is sadly no space for in this apartment. The best I could do would be to clean out all the crap from under my bed; install some curtains and a lava lamp for atmosphere and then retreat there when my sliding wall was not enough. Incidentally, my sliding wall has now become my easel. Am I really an artist if I end up with all the charcoal on the paper and little on my hands? Some people in my drawing unit are veritable chimney sweeps by the end of the session. Perhaps I fail. Guv'nor.

I'm leaving my balcony door open again tonight. For once, the place is silent - no music, no shouting; just the bats and passing cars and quiet rain. I want to go camping for a week. I am in the most unscholarly mood in the history of academic procrastination.

Time travel must be pretty awesome. I want to see Melbourne in the 'twenties.
*I tried this once.


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How To Get Stared At In The Supermarket - Part 49

Dress like a twenty five-year-old and start attempting to moonwalk in the confectionery aisle, then tug on your mother's sleeve and beg her for Faber Castell connector textas until she relents.

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A geek is someone who spends time being "social" on a computer. This could mean chatting on IRC or ICB, playing multi-user games, posting to alt.sex.bondage.particle.physics, or even writing shareware. Someone who just uses their computer for work, but doesn't spend their free time "on line" is not a geek. Most geeks are technically adept and have a great love of computers, but not all geeks are programming wizards. Some just know enough unix to read mail and telnet out to their favorite MUD.

Geeks are generally social outcasts from mainstream America*. The ranks of geekdom are swelled with gamers, ravers, science fiction fans, punks, perverts, programmers, nerds, subgenii, and trekkies. These are people who did not go to their high school proms, and many would be offended by the suggestion that they should have even wanted to. Geeks prefer to socialize with other geeks, the self proclaimed weird. Therefore they go online to organize parties, food runs, drink runs, and movie nights, and be assured that their companions would rather talk about superheros as modern mythology than the latest football scores.

Geeks are their own society: a literate, hyperinformed underground. The community accepts people from all walks of life, assuming they have access to the net and the skill to use it. Geeks are rather openminded with regards to nonstandard lifestyles. Many geeks are queer, more practice non-monogamy, and the most common religion is neo-paganism. You can't tell if someone is a geek just by looking at them, there is no dress code. Some dress casual, some prefer silk - but few pay attention to current fashion. You are more likely to see a geek in a renaissance bodice than a dress from glamour magazine; or a tie-dye instead of suit and tie.

The unwritten geek credo states that originality and strangeness are good, and that blind conformity and stupidity are unforgivable. Take care not to confuse the terms geek and nerd. A nerd is a person with no social skills, usually obsessed with science or technology (geek is more computer specific). Nerds are known for their pocket protectors, taped glasses, and plaid shirts. Many nerds are also geeks, using the net as a safe screen to hide behind while practicing their social skills. However they rarely come out to be seen in person at live geek events, so there is little reason to be concerned. The term hacker tends to refer to the more programming intense set of the geek crowd. However the term is overused in the popular media, and therefore is no longer much used among "real geeks". Hacker also has negative connotations related to cracking, or illegally obtaining access to computers and accounts. Geek can also be used as a verb. "To geek" is to sit online and read mail, news, chat, and otherwise waste time in front of a keyboard. This "geeking" often consumes many hours, even if the intention was to "just log in and check my mail." Some would say this time would be better spent being social in person or even just being curled up in a sunbeam.

[N.B. The above definition was found at http://downlode.org/Etext/geek.html. Therefore, this is not my work. Just clearing that up.]
* Lilly's addendum: I'd say mainstream Australian culture is pretty much mainstream America right now.

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Centrelink are a bunch of cunts.

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