Image is everything. It doesn't matter what's inside your head, as long as you look good. As long as you're skinny and bronzed like an island goddess. Have a flat stomach and big hair, not the other way around. Voluptuous lips and long eyelashes. 36-24-36. Six foot and then some, with a pair of platforms. Look natural, like you've just rolled out of bed; even if it takes you five hours, an army of stylists and an industrial-sized can of hairspray to sizzle your limp hair into generous curls. Glamorously arched eyebrows and a Cindy Crawford mole.

It's easy to blame the media for the focus on the aesthetic. Advertising especially, entertaining illusions of wearing a particular brand of clothing will make you beautiful like their flawlessly photoshopped models. Even things that seem plausible, like wearing a type of makeup to achieve impeccably smooth skin, are an unrealistic fantasy for the more repulsive members of society.

I ascribe the issue to people rather than the media, which does little more than feed us images. The only unrealistic ideals that the media offers are statements like "everyone is beautiful, no matter their shape or size". That is a load of shit- everyone knows that women have to be thin and tall with oversized mammaries if anyone is to be seriously attracted to them. And even then, you can't please everyone- even Megan Fox, the epitome of sexy, has her critics- savage ones at that.

I'm sick of being ugly. I'm not this way inclined because of the influence of enhanced images of celebrities, or because of anything that anyone may have told me. Nobody has successfully pressured me to believe that success hinges on one's ownership of a pair of double Ds, it just seems to be assumed knowledge.

Unfortunately nothing I can do will transform me into someone whose countenance won't terrify small children. Even with all the plastic surgery in the world, while it would be a vast improvement, I would always fall short. Cosmetics procedures that are within my financial reach are even more futile- my cupboard full of hair products has so far failed to give me voluptuous hair; and starving myself for as long as I can bear it (which would not be long knowing me!) can't give me the body I want.

I don't know what to do. I wish I could start over, with better genetics. Unfortunately modern science has not yet stretched this far, and even if it did, I might be a lost cause. I would love to say "tomorrow, I will..." but I have nothing to finish that sentence with that will rectify the issue. The best I could do is "tomorrow, I will stop caring", but I know that I will never adhere to that, as much as it is a silly thing to despair over.

I'm sick of being ugly, and I'm sick of trying not to be ugly, and I'm sick of caring about it so much. Unfortunately, like the pile of papers that I have accumulated that live in the study room, it will never go away. Sometimes it gets moved- right now it's in a red crate- but I can't bear to let go of its contents.

Bigger is better. Cases in point: jewellery, hair, bank account balances, wardrobes, boobs, high heels, muscles, handbags, height, brains, bathtubs, chocolate, social life.

Unfortunately, in my case at least, most of the above are infinitesimally small. The only thing I have that is absolutely huge is my butt, which is the one thing that should be as small as possible. Life is so unfair. God must hate me.

Those were the days.

Gumboots. Crayons. Jigsaws. Monkey bars. Vegemite sandwiches. Sunhats. Other kids with reams of snot and saliva escaping from their facial crevices. Having to go wherever your parents went. Being yelled at for not being able to reach the taps. Being smacked with a wooden spoon by a bitch of a woman and feeling powerless to run away. Getting in huge trouble for calling said woman a bitch, with only a vague notion of its meaning. Being told, after a clumsy attempt at riding a bike, that "if you can't do it properly, then don't do it at all".

Who would miss this? Why do people seem to pine for their childhood? As beautifully nostalgic as it sounds, childhood was not a time when "life's biggest problem was choosing which colour crayon". It wasn't carefree, or uncomplicated. It sucked. I hated it. I wanted out. And I can't have been the only one who thought that.

Surely those who paint childhood as idyllic are looking at the past with rose-coloured glasses. Amazingly enough, children can and do have problems, and in my experience at least; life is far better now. I may have more responsibility now, but I can also escape if I want to. I have the means to extricate myself from most situations should the need arise, which was a luxury I craved as a child. I can make my own decisions without having other people override them with their own, I have my own money which I can spend how I choose to, I can more or less do what I want. Who would ever want to go back to a life completely out of their control? Having others make your decisions for you is only Arcadian as long as the decisions are the right ones.

I want everything.

I cannot go into a shopping centre without at everything and exclaiming "I WANT ONE!" like a snotty five-year-old. I cannot even go past a single store without leering into the window, unless it is an op shop, or a health food store. Even a trip to the supermarket ends in tears as I forlornly look at all of the exciting things I want for no particular reason, like the $10 pink mixing bowl from Coles, which I have yet to persuade my mother to purchase, despite pointing at it and doing puppy dog eyes every time we walk past it. Perhaps this approach fails because my puppy dog eyes are more Sam than Tinkerbell.

Things that I want right now, which are within the realms of possibility:
1. More clothing. I am so bored and frustrated with my wardrobe, and I hate the dress that I am currently wearing. It goes against my beliefs to dress the way I do!
2. More shoes. As much as it seems that I have many pairs of shoes, I feel the need for more.
3. Furniture in which to display my shoes, because my current shoe furniture is full.
4. The cricket to finish, it was meant to finish half an hour ago, yet the damn thing is showing no sign of ending. As a result, tonight is doomed to be boring because it does not look like there will be anything on TV.
5. A flava lamp- one of those lava lamps that is tall enough to stand on the floor.
6. My computer desk to be clean. While this would take me about five minutes to rectify, it's never going to happen. One day, so much stuff will mount on my desk that I will die in an avalanche of bank statements, nail polish remover, and blank CDs.
7. My holiday homework to be done. This will happen, but not for about another month. But, as with everything else, I want it now.
8. I want to lose like ten kilos. This is possible, but I wouldn't count on it happening over the summer, which is when it is most important to avoid looking like a whale.
9. I want to finish the short story I am writing. So far I have not gotten past the first sentence, and I've been working on it for about a week. I have a really good idea and I want to write it before I forget about it. I have written out my plan but if I don't write the story soon, I will look at the plan and not understand what my former self wants from me, as with every other story I start. The problem is, I keep starting, but it's just not right, so I keep starting again. I could probably construct something of a decent story length with all of the first sentences I have written.
10. I want shoes. Did I mention that? I want black shoes, with a three inch heel, that are comfortable and in some way distinctive, like they could have a bow or something. And no fucking peep toe, I am so over that look. I would also like a bag that matches said shoes, and some kind of outfit.

Things that I want right now, that are not remotely possible:
Let's not even go there, I want the world.

It must have been a slow news day.

Today, the CFA website crashed. It was a major news story- reporters expressed their outrage that Victorians at risk of bushfire on such a hot day had no access the website of their fire authority. They completely skirted the first question that would occur to any rational person- who the fuck would look at the CFA website in case of fire? You would call triple zero and get the fuck out of there. You don't go, "HMMM, ALL THESE TREES ARE BURNING, OH LOOK IT'S SPREADING TO MY HOUSE, UMMMM I THINK THE BEST THING IS TO GO ON THE CFA WEBSITE WHICH I NEVER EVEN KNEW EXISTED" and even if someone has the need to check to whip up a fire plan; it would be a bit late! They should have listened to those TV ads that told them to be fire ready or something when they had the chance.

The fuss that seemed to have been kicked up about the stupid CFA website was grating at best, but you know what's worse? The stupid postal workers who won't deliver mail. That is what they are paid to do, so they can damn well do it properly. I don't care if they don't get paid much, if they want a better salary then they can get a better fucking job. Deliver my application by Friday, employees of Australia Post, or I will.... I will... um.... go cry in a corner somewhere. And it will be ALL THEIR FAULT.

A slogan T-shirt says so much more than just the letters on it.

I used to think that slogan T-shirts were so cool. Seeing mass-produced pastel colours shirts with witticisms printed on them in chain stores, they seemed to proclaim that the wearer has a sense of humour. Unfortunately, when I thought that they were fantastic, they were financially beyond my reach. Yet somehow I have managed to accumulate a fair number of said T-shirts; because of the numerous yet invariably disappointing sales that Jay-Jays has had; and because I have received a few as gifts. Luckily I have also gradually purged my wardrobe of them, because they're stupid.

Most of the slogans formed by the cracked lettering aren't even funny. These make the wearer look like they are barely aware of what they are wearing, which is one of the most treacherous sins one can commit. But, no matter if the slogan is side-splittingly hilarious, the wearer still looks like an idiot.

Clothing should speak through its style and how it is assembled as an outfit. It does not need to speak through words printed on a top saying something annoying like "things not to say to a cop" or "666% evil". The worst thing about slogan tees is that, short of incinerating them, you can't make them shut up (unlike the wearer, who is probably one of those people who won't willingly shut up either, but that can always be amended with duct tape).

Furthermore, there is no need for one to proclaim to the world with a poor quality T-shirt that they have an active sense of humour. EVERYONE has a sense of humour. It is assumed knowledge. On that topic, people who talk about their significant other's fantastic sense of humour as one of the reasons why they love them, as if nobody else can crack a joke, really annoy me. Really, just shut up. You and your apparently "quirky" sense of humour; and your fugly T-shirts, can shove it.

Why the fuck do you have a fashion blog?

It seems that everyone (more or less) has a blog these days. As much as I would like to criticise that, I can't, because I myself have a blog (in case you hadn't noticed). Instead, I would like to turn my scathing attack onto fashion blogs. You know, those blogs typically managed by girls who see themselves as Supre-wearing* fashionistas, filled with pictures of deliciously expensive shoes, creative ensembles, pin-up girls and Kate Moss; with obscure song lyrics and random sentiments typed in undersized fonts.

Surely there has to be some qualification for having a fashion blog. Like, having a sense of style. When you know that someone dresses annoyingly, it is made all the more grating by seeing that they obviously have an appreciation for the aesthetic by blogging about it- and even this does not stop them dressing in the most generic way possible.

All fashion blogs created by those lacking a sense of style should be henceforth annihilated. The only fashion blogs that should be retained are ones like http://madamejulietta.blogspot.com/. She has exciting pictures, dresses well (she's always on Lookbook) and best of all, does not write a thing. Well she does, but very rarely, and it's not in English so it doesn't count.

I have one further thing to say on the matter:

* Not that there is anything wrong with Supre. I love Supre. But those who wear outfits as they appear on manikins should stop masquerading as someone with their own style.

A female is only the sum of her body parts.

MEGAN FOX. She is the hottest thing ever*, but is she necessarily deserving of her acclaim?
She is reputed to have said that she "didn't know what was happening" in terms of plotline for Transformers. How can an actor attempt to play her part, if she doesn't know the story that she is attempting to convey? The role should have been cast to someone who knew what was going on, and based on her merits as an actress; rather than to a smouldering hot bitch on the basis that she has a seductive pout and a good cleavage.

While most of the revenue from Transformers was undoubtedly generated due to Megan Fox's role, the benefits enjoyed by the production company as a result is negated by the bitter message that it proffers to women: that a female can only ever hope to be successful if she is unrealistically beautiful, regardless of any talent, skills or brains she possesses.


*I still think Paris Hilton is hotter, but that's not what I'm trying to prove here.