Dear Obama,

Or any other nominated person in charge.

First of all, how dare you. I thought you people were supposed to fix things. If that were the case, I wouldn’t be laying here, close to death, trying my very best not to hack up a lung onto my newborn son.

How dare you not think this is the most important issue on your list of agendas.

How is it still legal to be sick when you are the primary parent of young children?

Fix this immediately or I will not be voting for you to be king of Australia once you’re finished with the USA.

Fuck the reef, buddy, I am dying.

Half-hearted regards,


posted on the go; ignore mistakes


My Racist Rant

I have a problem with Irish people.

I can’t refuse anything they ask of me. Whether it be money or favours, I’m a quivering school girl with wandering hands and wandering eyes, swooning at the sound of their precious accents.

This regards any Irish person. You could look like the arse end of an African elephant and I’ll still want a piece of you. Ask me for money, it’s yours. Ask me for sexual favours, why not? Just keep talking. Tell me about potatoes.

The real problem is that marketing companies somehow know this and they are using it to their advantage.

You know the people? They stand in the middle of shopping centres and try to sell you crap. How are they ALL Irish? Is there a training program??

Home fruit and veg delivery. Let me tell you, I am a domestic fucking goddess, but I don’t cook. I am so shit when it comes to the time of day when people cook a meal for their family. I’m so done by 5 o’clock. So why would someone like me sign up for home fruit and veg delivery?

Irish man told me to.

Now I’ve got all this rotting produce in my fridge reminding me of what a horrible person I am.

I have a problem with Irish people.

Maternal Instinct

Getting vomited on is the quickest and easiest way to make you lose all maternal instinct.

I was sitting in two lots of big spew, waiting for my husband to get me a towel and to get the culprit off of me.

“Are you okay little buddy?” He cooed at the little chunder machine.

Oh yeah… I thought to myself.  Vomit means they’re sick…

I took it as a personal affront.

Maybe that’s because I only fit into 3 outfits, and his gut juice just gave me more washing to do.

I’ll love him again when we’re both clean.