Category Archives: Uncategorized


Hola, and welcome to the next chapter in the Bluey’s Two Cents story! Recently I’ve had the opportunity to come on board as the Features Editor of a fab new Adelaide print magazine, FHB – that’s fashion, health and business y’all. You can get yourself a copy right here.

Having the chance to help build a print publication from scratch is an absolute dream for a magazine obsessed gal like me, and I’m crazy excited to get started on the Summer 2016 issue!

But for now, I’d like to share with you my Bluey’s Two Cents column from FHB’s Spring 2015 issue. Enjoy.


‘do nothing bitch’


Used to describe a person who lacks ambition and ‘does nothing’

e.g. Ain’t nobody got time for a do nothing bitch!

For those of you who’ve been living under a rock, or simply have no idea what I’m on about because you actually spend your time productively instead of scrolling through your news feed, allow me to introduce to you the concept of a do nothing bitch. Edgy, sassy and to the point, this phrase is like a gin and tonic; you’ll either love it, or hate it.

Here’s a bit of context. At only 28 years of age, Ronda Rousey is the first and current UFC Women’s Bantamweight Champion, the number one female MMA fighter in the world, and the first American woman to win an Olympic medal in Judo. Having recently defended her UFC title in August this year by casually knocking out her opponent in just 34 seconds, this gal is the definition of a badass. She’s young, beautiful, has achieved the highest level of success in her field, and has also tried her hand at acting and modelling, because she can.

rondaYet despite all of Ronda’s achievements in a number of areas, hater’s gonna hate. Unfortunately, there are still wet mops out there that manage to find flaws in her existence, and attack them with as much power as one of her award winning punches. That so-called flaw just happens to be her body. You’d think that before deciding to call Ronda Rousey’s body masculine, one might stop to think: a) maybe, just maybe, her body is quite muscular from being a MMA championship fighter and Olympic level Judoist, or b) probs not the best idea to have a go at someone who could definitely knock me out in her sleep.

If you or I received hundreds of notifications daily informing us that the way we look, and live our lives are just plain wrong, I think it would be safe to say that it might get us feeling a bit down. I can’t speak for anyone else here, but I myself would probably live out the rest of my days under the security and comfort of my doona, doing the old Netflix and Chill; only the hot guy in that scenario would be a packet of Twisties. But not one to let anyone make her feel inferior, Ronda hit back at her critics by using a UFC promo video to explain, in no uncertain terms who is boss:


“I have this one term for the kind of woman my mother raised me to not be, and I call it a do nothing bitch, or I call it a DNB a lot of the time. It’s the kind of chick that just tries to be pretty and be taken care of by someone else. That’s why I think it’s hilarious if people say my body looks masculine or something like that. I think [my body] is femininely badass as fuck because there’s not a single muscle on my body that isn’t for a purpose, because I’m not a do nothing bitch.”

It’s pretty powerful stuff. Another way to look at it is: a do nothing bitch is the kind of person (and I say person, because let’s be honest; we all know it’s not just women who can be bitches) who coasts through life without passion and drive, waiting for opportunities to fall into their laps. After deciding that Ronda Rousey will forever be my spirit animal, I suddenly had a thought — am I a do nothing bitch? As much as I would like to think, or have people believe that I grab life by the balls, and hustle to get closer to achieving my goals, I have to confess that at times, my motivation can not only be lacking, but completely disappear! On such a day, it wouldn’t be uncommon for me to snooze my alarm, decide that life is just too hard, and then proceed to sleep/eat/binge watch TV through all of the day’s commitments.

I’m very lucky that at this point in my life, I can somewhat get away with it. And by that, I mean I’m not letting anyone else down but myself. My lecturers couldn’t care less if I show up to tutorials. Even though they’ll be pissed off at the time, my friends will forgive me for bailing on coffee dates. My family might question my sanity over having spent an entire day consuming several pieces of toast on the couch in my pyjamas, but they’ll still love me anyway. But it’s my future self who’ll really suffer. I’m not talking about the version of me, who in ten years from now will be the impeccably stylish and impossibly cool editor of Cosmopolitan (a girl can dream, right?). Or maybe I am; who knows how our actions today will impact upon where we’ll end up tomorrow. But really, it’s the me who will find herself swamped with unanswered emails, pages upon pages of readings and the overwhelming feeling of failure the day after who will have to deal with the consequences of my laziness.

So to answer my own question, as much as I hate to admit it, occasionally I can be a bit of a do nothing bitch. However, what’s really important is that I don’t want to be a do nothing bitch. We’re all human, and it’s only natural for our drive to literally drive away on occasion, but with a bit of perspective and rational thinking, getting back on track to kicking some serious ass ain’t so hard. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.



It’s that time again kids. Uni is back. I can hear the collective ahhhhhrrrrrggggghhhhhhhblahblahblah coming through loud and clear from in front of your computer screens. We are well and truly into the semester one, and unsurprisingly, it only took me two half days of classes to realise that this semester isn’t going to be any more reverting than the last. It’s crazy how quick that happens! In the weeks leading up to week one, I often find my inner dialogue sounding something like this:


I’m just, like, so keen to start uni again! You know, I’m just really craving the routine of it; my eating/exercise/sleeping habits will all fall into place once I get back into it all. And honestly, I actually miss the mental stimulation; I need something to focus on.

 back to uni excited giph

Nek minut, it’s week two, and the lil voice inside my head sounds more along the lines of:


Fuck my life. Fuck my life. Fuck uni. Fuck lectures. Fuck tutes. My brain feels like mush. I have no friends. Fuck em all.

 fuck me giph

While the career minded, rational side of me acknowledges and accepts that completing tertiary studies is a crucial, if not obligatory, stepping stone on the way to being, wait for it, paid actual money for writing shit like this, the real me, who is a lazy son of a bitch, would like to mention the crappy nature of said stepping stone. Yes, there are undoubtedly many great things about being a university student, or as I like to call it, a professional bludger. You get to meet people from all walks of life, gain important knowledge and experience in your chosen field, and increase your alcohol tolerance to legendary status through the consumption of many ciders at the uni bar. However, even the most enthusiastic of estudiantes would have to agree; there are some parts of going to uni that just straight out can suck a big fat one. Here’s a little run down of just such things. It’s at this point I’d like to give a shout out to all the first years out there, as I know this time of your life, experiencing pretty much of the things that are about to be mentioned, is especially hard for you.


1. Lectures


Listen up, coz this is the part where I say exactly what everyone on the entire planet, university lecturers aside, is thinking. Lectures are bullshit. On second thought, I feel that it is entirely possible many professional university lecturers also share this belief. Don’t believe me? The proof exists in the rapidly decreased attendance numbers from Week One compared with Week Four. The only thing worse than weekly lectures is the first lecture of the semester itself. Every year, like a fool, you go along and take a seat in a big, overcrowded, and excessively hot lecture theatre, and enjoy an hour long nap through a brief outline of the course guide. To be frank, I could do both of those activities far more effectively from the comfort of my own bed.

sleepy cat

  1. Getting to know you games.


Yay! Just what I wanted to be doing in this tutorial that you’ve forced me to attend. As opposed to getting actual course work and assignments done, which is what we came here to do. As a journalism student, the getting to know you games I am most subjected to are of the interview style. Presumably, to start giving us hands on experience in the industry…lel. Then, lucky us, we get to introduce each other to the class, and everyone can pretend to be interested in Luke’s passion for V8 motoring journalism, or Kim’s (fuck, I mean Katie’s) Europe gap year.

cool story bro

  1. Where to sit?


There’s nothing like walking into a tute and having to decide where to park yo fine ass to make you feel like you’re in high school all over again. The only difference is, typically, it was me and my loser friends looking for a patch of grass collectively as a group, as opposed to me on my own. There are a few different kinds of people in your average University tutorial who you could possibly sit next to. There are the ones who are sitting by themselves in the farthest corner of the room, attentively on their phone or laptop. Firstly, if anyone is on their laptop in a tute, I’d like to suggest that they are most likely not doing uni work. It’s pretty much a proven fact that working on a laptop at uni makes you seem like a busy and connected professional individual. That’s why I do it! Now, if you’d like to just get through the tutorial without having to connect or interact at all, these would be the people to sit next to. Then there’s the group of already established friends. This is a tough one. Think Mean Girls…you probs can’t sit with them. Pretty much go for the people who are sitting by themselves, and are dressed most similarly to you. However, don’t take this decision lightly. Once you’ve chosen a seat, you almost always have to stick that seat out for the entire semester; which brings me to my next point…


  1. Group work


The bane of every uni student’s existence – group work. You know, when they group you with a bunch of randoms because, in the real world, you have to work with people you don’t know, or even like. I’m sure in the tutor’s mind, this seems like a really great way for everyone to get to know each other, and lesson the burden on each individual. In reality? The burden on each individual is dramatically increased due to the stress of a) trying to contact one another b) actually finding a time that suits everyone to meet up because, guess what, some people have a life outside of uni work (wut?) and c) ensuring that everyone pulls their weight. The only people who think group work is fab are those sneaky bludgers that somehow get away with doing nothing at all but still get to have the grade…assholes.

group work

  1. Exams


This is the part where I’d write a whole little rant about how shitty exams are, with all the late nights cramming, no social life, and self enforced sobriety for the months of June and November. Except I’m not going to, coz I wouldn’t know how that feels seeing as Journo students don’t have any exams! #yeaaaaaahhhboiiiii

suck it

HE’S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU…ANYMORE: What not to say when your friend gets dumped.

Last week I had the great pleasure of being told by the guy who I was kind of “seeing” (he didn’t like to use labels…shocker!) that he wasn’t really interested in me anymore, and that he never wanted to see me again. It was short, honest and to the point. A bit on the brutal side, but hey, you’d rather die from one swift, cold, emotionless stab to the heart than be set on fire and left to slowly burn, right? One minute we were “hanging out” under his tiger print doona cover, talking about his footy games, his friends, what had happened in his day, which female celebrities he thought were hot (hmm, I’m sensing a bit of a pattern here…) and the next, he’s all of sudden just not that into me anymore. Being dumped sucks. And it doesn’t discriminate either. He don’t care whether you’ve just been fucking for a few weeks, or if you have a mortgage and a puppy together. Doesn’t matter if it was done face to face, or in my case, behind the protection of his iPhone via text message. Whether it was mutual or one sided, a long time coming, or if it hit you in the face like a well executed bitch slap, realizing that someone who once loved, or at the very least, liked you now doesn’t is soul destroying. And one of the worst things, in my opinion, is how one person can have the power to make you feel so shit about yourself!


So in light of recent events in my otherwise boring as fuck personal life, I’ve complied a short list of things you should never EVER say to a friend who has recently suffered a good old fashioned dumping. And if you realize whilst reading this that you have accidently and unknowingly given out one of these golden nuggets of advice before, don’t feel too bad…chances are your gal only stuck one or two pins in the voodoo doll she has of you hiding in that shoebox under her bed.


  1. You’ll get over it

Yeah, you’re right, I will get over it. One day I’ll look back on all of this and have a big old laff at how miserable and depressed I was. But for now, I’m kind of devastated, so it would be great if you could stop talking.



  1. No one can make you feel bad unless you let them.

Woah, that’s really wise and all, but unfortunately I can’t just switch my emotions on and off like the lighter with which I will use to set his piece of shit car on fire. Also, I’d also like to point out that I never gave him permission to crush my heart into a thousand pieces. He just went ahead and did it anyway.



  1. You’re way more fun when you’re single!

Fuck you. You were more fun before I punched you in the face. Oh wait, sorry, that’s what I’m about to do.



  1. It could be worse.

Hmmm, yes, technically it could be worse. I could be you. Shit, did I just say that out loud?



  1. Just wait, he’ll be begging to take you back in a few weeks.

HAHAHAHA good joke. But seriously, don’t go putting those tiny, all consuming little seeds of hope in my head. Coz in 3 weeks when I have heard shit all from him, those little seeds will have grown into thick, thorny vines and will have wrapped themselves tightly around my heart, and I’ll have to start this whole process of “getting over him” again.



  1. I’m so jealous, I wish I was single!

Great! Then dump your boyfriend, you loved up bitch!



  1. There are plenty more fish in the sea.

No. Just no.



  1. Time heals everything.

Yes, indeed it does. Time will mend my broken heart. Just as it will the broken nose I’m about to give you.



  1. I saw that coming!

Well cheers for the heads up, ya fucker!



  1. Don’t worry. The right guy will come along!



*All hilariously appropriate gifs are from




Men of Adelaide (*who are over the age of 20 but under 28, live in a 15km radius of my current location, and have a job…sorry to be discriminative), you might want to grab the closest tissue box. I have an announcement to make. It is with great sadness, but at the same time, a very fulfilling and liberating sense of superiority, that I announce my retirement from the both fantastic and fucked up dating app that is Tinder. After a semi successful Tinder career of six months, I have decided to close my Tinder account for good (or until I have a dip in self confidence, in which case I’ll sign up again for an instant confidence boost!). Whhhhhhyyyyyyy?!?!, I hear all of my matches who never had the balls to message me, or couldn’t think of an original or clever enough pick up line to meet my very low standards, cry in agony. I know this must come as a shock to you all, and you probably may never understand why I am making this life changing decision. It’s not you, it’s me. Ha lel, it is actually kind of about you. I’ll attempt to explain myself in full in just a second, but essentially it comes down to one thing: I found my dignity again!

My relationship with Tinder pretty much resembles a rollercoaster. But not really in the traditional way one uses a rollercoaster to explain their experiences, eg: OMG Tinder is such an emotional rollercoaster, it’s lk one minute I’m hot and all da boyz wanna match with me, and then the next nobody is matching with me, wtf? No, I’m saying that my Tinder experience is literally exactly like how it feels to ride on a rollercoaster – the excitement of waiting in line, sitting down and grabbing onto the safety bar in anticipation, the slow incline upwards until the rush of adrenaline and happiness as you speed downwards. But then you start to feel sick, and you wish you could get off, and then once you have both feet on the ground, you wonder why you even went on the ride in the first place…and then, if you’re me, you line up and do it all over again coz you just never learn! The first time that I became aware of the existence of Tinder was at a girlfriend’s house for pre drinks. Sitting around sipping wine (just in case you’re new here and aren’t familiar with my writing style – by sipping, I mean sculling, and by wine, I mean Fruity Lexia) a few of the gals started talking about their latest Tinder matches. At first, I was merely amused, albeit curious, but by the time we got to the Cumby, I was yelling to anyone who would listen ‘I’M GONNA GET TINDER FIRST THING TOMORROW WOOOO!!!’ And why the bloody hell not? I’ve been a single lady for a few years now, I thought to myself, and obviously my current technique of starring at hot guys awkwardly while I took their coffee order, or on the bus wasn’t working so great, so what did I have to lose from giving it a crack?

I will never forget my first night as a Tinder gal. The feeling of quiet excitement and the anticipation of the unknown started to build as I clicked on the sexy flame icon and set my search parameters. Then, I was thrust into the ocean of endless possibilities of potential boyfriends (ha, good joke Amy!), and my thumb began to glide across the screen – right, left, right, right, right, right, right…you get the picture, I was pretty keen! I kept going, swiping left, but mostly swiping right. And then it happened. I received my first match, with Dylan, a 26 year old fitness trainer and self described “stress free cat”. Everything changed. My excitement levels went from ‘yay, High School Musical 3 is on channel 9 tonight!’ to ‘OH MY FUCKING GOD ZAC EFRON IS STANDING NAKED IN MY ROOM, TAKE ME NOW!!!!!’ My self confidence started rising at a rapid rate, and all of a sudden, I wasn’t me anymore, I was Miranda Kerr – a mega goddess that no Tinder boy could refuse. I kept swiping right, and the matches kept rolling in, and before I knew it, I felt like a fucking ten outta ten, and I was responding to multiple heeeyyyyyy’s from my multiple matches.

For a while, life was great. I quickly became something of a Tinder expert. Probably the most important piece of advice I could give an aspiring Tinder temptress is, always stop to look at all of a guy’s photos. You must do this for a few reasons. A) Some guys think that making their profile picture a shot of them in camo paintballing gear, complete with a gas mask, makes them look like a dangerous and sexy daredevil. Only problem? No one will want to fuck you if they can’t see your face mate! B) More importantly, taking the time to stop and browse the talent will prevent you from going into auto pilot, which makes you susceptible to accidently swiping left when you meant to swipe right, and losing your future husband/soul mate forever.

I’ve had some great times on Tinder. For me, the highlight would have to be reading all the hilarious one liners. Some of my favourites include:

  • Alex, 22, 652 km away (I swear he was closer when I swiped right..) – hey wasssssuuuuuupppp
  • Alex, 24, five km away – Keen? Or not keen? But you must be keen if you swiped right, right?
  • Tom, 22, 14 km away – It’s your lucky night Amy! I’m the large, Italian stallion you have been searching for boo 😀
  • Declan, 21, 13 km away – Love a red head!!!
  • Michael, 21, six km away – So I’m guessing from your about me, you like the sun, dancing, and kissing? Wow, we have so much in common! I too love kissing and the sun, and if drunk enough, dancing! We should go on a date!
  • Tom, 23, eight km away – Tell you what Amy, I’m stewing in my own juices over here, come calm me down. ??
  • Marc, 27, 10 km away – Hey! For something random, we should meet up right now! I’ll pop your Tinder cherry 😉
  • Lyle, 22, 13 km away – FYI you look very hot, very kissable lips!
  • Matt, 18 (this was before I realised you could set an age range), four km away – So I’m looking for a friends with benefits situation where the girl would come over and we would make love and then she would leave…do you think you could fulfil that position?


I did end up going on a few Tinder dates, which I found to be quite a scary experience in the beginning. Coming out from behind the iPhone, and actually having to try and make non awkward conversation with a complete stranger who is really hot is pretty hard, because you have to think of funny things to say at the same time as trying to look pretty/attractive at all times. The success of said dates was varied. There was one guy who, after what I thought was an awesome first date, just suddenly became unavailable, and stopped replying to me all together (he probs found a real life gf…lucky bastard!). Then there were a few in the middle, who were just kind of like meh, and I didn’t really peruse it further. There was also one absolute dick who shall rename nameless – *cough* Lyle – who last time I saw him was exiting my house at two am without saying goodbye after he asked me ‘what’s your number? First of all, that is a really creepy and weird question to be asking someone you haven’t known for very long, and secondly, if you’re not going to be happy with the answer you get, then probs don’t ask the question in the first place. Looking back now, I’m struggling to figure out how we actually managed to have sex considering he has no balls, what so ever. And then there was, or is, one who I still see from time to time.

However, in the end, what I’ve come to realise is that I am never going to find what I’m looking for on Tinder. Take this guy I met; let’s call him Bryce (after Carlton hottie Bryce Gibbs of course, yum). Literally my type to a tee, he seemed to be everything I was looking for in a new friend: fun, super hot, friendly, and plays footy. But the more I hung out with him, the more I saw that, actually, he’s a jerk. You want an example? I’ll give you examples! We’d be cuddling in bed, naked of course, and he’d have one arm around me while texting with the other hand. I’m not a psycho bitch. It’s fine for you to send a quick text. But what’s not ok is when you’re on the phone the entire time I’m with you, and also when the charger cord is stretched tightly across my neck from my side of the bed to you, making me unable to move, or breath. He also talked about other girls in front me, like almost every time I was with him. Was this supposed to make me jealous, and more into him? Coz it worked, and I found you irresistible, so if you happen to be reading this, could you please stop? K thanks. But the thing that annoyed me the most, is that everything was on his terms. I only got to hang out with him when he wanted. He was an ok guy when we were together, but then when I msgd him to see if he wanted to grab a drink or catch a movie, he’d blow me off. Dick.

giphy 2

So basically, what I’m trying to articulate here, is that while Tinder has done wonders for my confidence, and I now realise that I’m a hot piece of ass (and that having a fetish for rangas is an actual thing…), it can also be kind of damaging. Maybe that’s not true for those that are able to compartmentalise, and only think with their penis, but for those who are like me, and struggle to separate the physical from the emotional, Tinder probs isn’t the best place for you. Also, romantics, or people that wish that their lives were like a Disney movie should stay away too. Now, I’m defs not immune to having a shallow streak, and I do love scrolling through pictures of guys and judging them purely on how attractive I find them, but I feel like I’m at the point where I’ve outgrown some of the other things that Tinder encourage in people – game playing, power struggles, the uncertainty of not knowing where you stand with someone, and the hooking up void of any emotion. I’m not a sensitive gal, but you’ve got to give me something to show me you’re interested in more than just what’s under my clothes. So on that note, I say Sayonara Tinder. It’s been fun. And for any of my hundreds of matches that would like to contact me from now on, chuck us a friend request. Or even better, when you see me out, which you will, because Radelaide is inconveniently small, buy me a tequila shot. You’ll find that will give you a far increased chance of success. Cheers.


Apologies in advance, but I’m going to be like one of those really annoying people who post an awesome picture with the caption from where you’d rather be. But in all seriousness, I’m sitting on a stripy deck chair in Green Park overlooking Buckingham Palace on a beautiful sunny day in London…I AM WHERE YOU’D RATHER BE BITCHEZ! That’s right kids, it’s Euro Trip – Take Two. But this time, there will be a little less alcohol and where the fuck am I? moments (or who the fuck are you? moments) and a little more fine wine, and actually seeing shit. I’m also not going it alone this time. I’m travelling with my mummy, which will be an amazing mother-daughter bonding experience blah blah blah.


I’m super excited to be back in Europe again, but particularly I’m stoked to be getting a second chance to do all the things that I a) didn’t have time or b) didn’t have enough moolah to do last time I was here. And after mastering the whole independent lady, travelling on ma own thang, I’m surprised by just how bloody brilliant it is to have a travel buddy this time, even if she is carting around an old teddy named ‘floppy’ and taking pictures of it with everything/anything/anyone for a Facebook album titled ‘floppy’s adventures’. And while we’re on the topic of facey, I’ve also been asked, is there wifi here? literally every 5 seconds…I swear oldies are more addicted and dependant on social media than we are! Mum and I are very similar in many ways, one of which is our ability to sniff out and spot a good looking male anywhere, at anytime. We’ve enjoyed the talent here in London immensely, and have found joy in observing specimens from every demographic – indie, under twenty five in a suit (my personal fave, Harvey Spector anyone?), metrosexuals, rough and rugged lad, and of course, DILF or silver fox. I really do regret teaching my mum about the term silver fox, because ever since, she has proceeded to say very loudly, ‘look, there’s a silver fox!’ whenever one of the glorious creatures walks past. What she doesn’t understand is that “silver fox” isn’t a special secret code that only her and I know about. The obsession has reached such a dangerous level that it possessed her to actually interrupt a man during his dinner at a restaurant, and ask him to have a photo because he was such a major silver fox. Mum said later that was a mistake though, coz when he opened his mouth he had a terrible sounding accent and a few teeth missing…so disappointing!


Aside from these few infuriating yet endearing qualities, I’m having the best time being the expert (but really, when am I ever not?) and showing her the town, and honestly, there are some things that you just simply cannot do when you’re on your lonesome. For example, it’s nice to not have to park my ass down at a pub for dinner and have to go through the humiliation and intense shame that comes from having to explain to a waiter that yes, it’s just me tonight thankswanker. Yesterday, mum and I made London our bitch. London Eye? TICK! Big Ben? TICK! Westminster Abby, Madame Tussaud’s, Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park? TICK, TICK, TICK and MUTHA FUCKING TICK! But unfortunately come day three, my poor mother has been struck down with a bit of travel tummy trouble, which I suspect she picked up from either pashing the Daniel Craig wax figure at Madame Tussuad’s, or from cuddling that bloody bear that’s been sluzzing it up all around London. After a bit of a panicked scramble, and a trip to the hospital, mum is now doing fine and is on the mend! This experience got me thinking about all the times when things haven’t gone quite right when I’ve been overseas in the last couple of years. And then I thought it might be entertaining for people to read and have a good old laff about my misfortunes, which at the time were cringe worthy and horrifying, but now are hilarious and fond memories.


Probably the first thing that comes to mind when I think ‘bad travel experiences’ is a little tale that I like to call balls out in Budapest. It was pissing down with rain, and I got off a five hour bus trip from Vienna at the bus terminal in Budapest, which happened to be in what felt like, at the time, the middle of nowhere. In attempt to stay dry, find out where the hell I needed to go, and haul around a twenty five kg suitcase with only one wheel, I found myself taking shelter under an overpass, which also doubled as a car park. It was very quiet as the place was practically deserted, so my ears pricked up when I heard the sound of crunching gravel behind me. I turned around to see a middle aged, fanny pack wearing man about one hundred metres away. Apart from the fact that he was probably the seediest man I have ever seen in my entire life, the creepiest part was that he was starring straight at me. I turned back around and tried to convince myself that I wasn’t about to be kidnapped and sold as a sex slave, but it was pretty hard to do considering that when I turned around to have another look, the man was now fifty metres away and closing in. Coz he was closer, I was able to get a better look at him, and that’s when I realised that the black bum bag around his waist was most definitely not a bum bag. It was a detachable codpiece of some description. And that hot dog he was holding in his hands was most definitely not a hot dog. It was his dick. And he was waving it furiously at me. Safe to say I have never run so fast in my entire life. Pretty sure whipping your cock out at females is the done thing in Europe, coz a few months later, some gals and I were walking to the Piazzale Michelangelo in Florence, and my friend said in her beautiful Surrey accent, ‘wow that man is wearing very short shorts!’ There would have been nothing out of the ordinary about an old man in Italy wearing a pair of hotpants, except for the fact that he wasn’t wearing any hot pants at all.


I’m sure almost every traveller has a story about how they missed that flight, or caught the wrong train. Mine happened in Belgrade, Serbia, when I misread the twenty four hour time on my plane ticket, and rocked up to the airport like a right tosser wondering why I couldn’t check in to my flight two hours after it had already left the airport. Two hundred and fifty euro and one very uncomfortable night’s lack of sleep on an airport bench later, I arrived in Istanbul, only to be greeted by the Istanbul bus terminal, which can only be described as a ghetto zoo on crack. Think goats and dogs running wild, people pushing and shoving with bails of hay and bags of flour on their heads, and taxis and cars driving in whatever direction they bloody well feel like. I was immediately approached by a man who insisted on helping me find a bus ticket to my next destination – Fethiye, for a Turkey sailing cruise. Only problem was that, of course, every bus to Fethiye was full. I managed to squeeze onto one leaving that night, which got me into Fethiye literally hours before my tour started. A few other scary things about this experience: I had to leave my luggage in a random room which was so hard to find again when it came time to collect it that I honestly thought it was lost forever. The Internet café was five levels below the bus terminal in an abandoned car park, and the man who ran it offered me a cup of Turkish tea, which I did not drink for fear of being date raped. And then when it was time to actually leave and get on the bus, I’d compare trying to find my bus to being in the mosh at a One Direction concert, which in normal circumstances I would thoroughly enjoy, but in this instance, it was pure chaos. I had to go back to the service counter, whip ma ranga hair back and forth, and plead with the guy behind the counter to escort me personally to the bus. Gets em everytime #rangalyf.


Three years ago, I went to Otavolo, Ecuador on a two month volunteer teaching trip. Being a typical naive eighteen year old fresh out of school, I skimmed over the part which outlined how we would be teaching the children in Spanish, and therefore rocked up on the doorstep of my host family knowing shit all Spanish, except for Hola, which I couldn’t even manage to choke out coz I was such a fraidy cat! I burst into tears, and embarrassed myself in front of all the other volunteers, who were there as a part of their international studies or hispanic studies degrees coz they’re really academic and are going to one day change the world, or something. But I guess it was fine coz I’d already embarrassed myself earlier that week by being the only volunteer to pass out off of a stool in the middle of our briefing meeting due to the high altitude. Despite being a complete pleb, I managed to learn how to string a few sentences together (literally everything was muy bien) and actually made some friends. A group of us decided to take an eight hour bus trip to Baños for the weekend to do some adventure activities, like White Water Rafting and Canyoning. Another thing we did was rent two go cart buggies, and drive around the town, which was great fun until my buggy broke down, and the others kept driving coz no one noticed I wasn’t there anymore. If that wasn’t soul crushing enough, I had to get towed all the way back to the hostel, and then when the owner found out that I’d broken the buggy, he demanded I had to pay to get it fixed. So naturally, we legged it and tried to hide in our hostel room. The owner found us and almost banged the door down until I emerged and played the tried and tested card of ‘no hablo espanol’…sucker.


And finally, to celebrate the fact that today is ma birthday, I’d like to take a moment to reminisce about the last time I had a birthday overseas. At the ripe and glorious age of nineteen, I went with some friends that I hardly knew on an extreme Prague Pubcrawl, and proceeded to drink about two litres of power hour free wine – which may have actually been paint stripper, and downed a red headed slut shot. Nek minit, I woke up naked in my hostel room bunk, thank god with the sheet covering me. I instinctively turned over to check that I still had all the essentials such as my wallet and iPhone etc, and opened my handbag only to find that it, as well as all of my belongings, was covered in a puddle of orange vomit. Happy Birthday to me

Living with a Ghetto Booty: Blessing, or a Burden?

With the recent nuptials of Kimmy K and Kanye (Krap that’s a Kutla K’s..see what I did there?), otherwise known as hip hop and reality tv’s version of Will and Kate Middleton, or the couple with the world’s largest combined ego, having taken place just a few days ago in Florence, it got me thinking about the all the things Kim and I have in common.

A) Taste in men: To all of my friends who have to put up with my play by play commentary on today’s new tinder matches, it’s no secret I like my men sporty. And so does Kim, according to her little black book: NFL and Basketball players Reggie Bush, Miles Austin, and Kris Humpries just to name a few (yum, yum, and yu..oh wait, tosser.) Another coincidence? We both like em’ tall…I think this picture sums it up pretty nicely.

  • short









AND? We both LOVE hip hop, and although I haven’t dated any tattooed, smooth talking, grill gleaming males as of yet, I’m sure my future hubby will be Jay Z’s next prodigy. God, we’re practically twins! And finally, I think Kim might be onto something here, coz she seems to enjoy a bit of chocolate. And to quote White Chicks, who doesn’t love a beautiful chocolate man!

B) The Ugly Cry. For those that aren’t familiar (and by familiar, I mean hooked) with the billion dollar empire built on a pile of lies and our own weird obsession with knowing everything about celebs that is Keeping Up With the Kardashians, you might not be aware of how ugly Kim looks when she cries. Exhibit A.Kim-Kardashian-Crying-266x400

I actually am not secure enough in myself to show you a pic of what I look like when I cry, but just picture what you see here, but with frizzy, wild red hair, red eyes, big ugly red blotches…well really, just think all red errthang.






C) Ghetto Booty. Probably our biggest similarity, literally, are our sizeable behinds. While I shamefully admit that I am nowhere near as bootylicious as Kimmy (is that even possible, or medically safe?), I’m pretty damn proud of what I do have.


Ghetto Booty can be defined as a term used when you see a girl with a firm, big, tight packed ass; cheers urban dictionary. Just in case that ain’t clear enough, here’s the example they provide: dawg, look at that gir’ls ghetto booty! Just on a side note, if anyone ever actually hears someone say something like this in real life, can you please get it on video?!


I have the lineage from the Robinsons of Hobart, Tasmania to thank for my well endowed behind. I’ve always felt like I drew the short straw when it came to the Clark family genetics. While my little bro stands over 6 foot, with a long and lean physique, the infuriating ability to eat as much shit as he wants and never put on weight, and that aussie beach babe blonde and tanned colouring, I seem to have inherited the red hair, freckles, short legs, and a gigantic ass. As I’ve gotten a bit older though, I’ve come to terms with my bootyliciousness, and now, I embrace it with full force! It seems that there are people out there who would pay big bucks to have a little extra junk in the trunk. These are just a few of the reasons why having a ghetto booty kicks ass..

  1. While this may seem like a pretty insignificant upside, one of the best things about having a huge ass is that it’s bloody comfy to sit on. And for someone who does a lot of sitting on their ass, I really appreciate how important this is. Watching Suits for seven hours straight really is so much better when there’s some cushioning to keep you comfy.
  2. I can squat like a mutha fucker! I am not too shy to say that I could do squats all day, erryday. And I hold the record at booty camp for sitting wall squat holds…over six minutes ya’ll.. wut?!
  3. Having a ghetto booty is defs the best asset to have when partaking in one of my all time favourite activities in life; tearing up the d floor. Especially when some incredible 2000’s RnB tunes come on; think Sir Mix-a-lot’s Baby Got Back! There is literally nothing in life that brings me more joy than shaking dat ass to Ms New Booty by the Ying Yang twins…except for Hot in Here by Nelly. Also, the extra firepower in these glutes gives me the strength and stamina to outlast all those skinny bitches way into the early hours of the morning.
  4. According to science, my ghetto booty is actually the reason why I have low cholesterol, am less susceptible to diabetes and heart disease, have higher levels of appetite controlling hormone Leptin, and an increased life expectancy. Win! Also, my children will be intellectually superior to those born to flat ass parents (I’m not making this up, just ask science!), so all of those bratty future friends of my kids can make as many ‘yo mamma so fat’ jokes as they want!


I know, I know. From the outside looking in, it seems that me and my bootylicious ass have the perfect bootylicious life. But what those out there with a little less in the back will never understand, is that having a ghetto booty is a daily struggle. As with everything in life, you’ve got to take the good with the bad, but sometimes I just wish I could be just a little more in proportion, ya feel me?

To start off with, apparently according to every rap song that ever existed, every man and his dog are supposed to go bananas over my phat ass, so I’m kind of confused as to why there isn’t an orderly line of hotties in da yard frothing over my milkshake (milkshake being my booty in this case). Another common misconception is that gals with a generous hinie look amazing in a pair of hip hugging denim jeans. The reference I’m referring to here is what Jason Derulo so desperately needs to know: How do you fit all of dat in dem jeans? Well JD, the answer is, I can’t fucking fit all of my ass in a pair of fucking jeans! After years and years of searching, I still can’t find a pair of flattering jeans that look casual, and make my ass look ahhhmazing. It’s probably one of my life’s greatest struggles, and I know I’m not the only one out felling the pain #preach. And if it wasn’t already bad enough, I also have to cater for having shorter than normal legs, meaning any half decent looking pair of jeans that I manage to find, I have to cuff them up like a hipster freak *sigh*.

Still on the issue of buying clothes that fit, let’s address how my curved spine and protruding butt make skirts that are a perfectly acceptable length at the front look like they should belong to a baby prostitute from the back coz they’re so short. And say I feel like buying a bikini? Ha, good luck mate. There is no way in hell that I would ever in any universe be able to find a bikini set that could accommodate my size 8 top, and my size fifty thousand bottom. Those cute shorts that I see people wearing to music festivals are also out, mainly coz they look like an ill fitting g string on my behind. And trust me, no one wants to see that!

In terms of everyday situations, having a ghetto booty can make for some uncomfortable moments. For example, those times when there aren’t enough seats to go around, and your friend/old mate wants to share a chair with you? It’s just downright awkward. At work, we have a very small kitchen/behind the counter area, and with six to eight people on a shift at once, my butt is always in the way, so it seems to me like my co workers are constantly trying to cop a feel (not that it’s necessarily a bad thing, but it is when it’s your sixty year old boss, and it’s the seventeenth time it’s happened in one shift. Again, awkward.) I also recently bought a bike to ride to and from uni, and to work on, however, from the first moment I got up on that seat, I realized that this seat would never be able to understand my sizeable needs. Although it saves money, and is great for a spot of exercise, I’m not sure it’s worth the pain!


To conclude, living with a ghetto booty can be both a blessing and burden.

Some days I feel like this.nicki-minaj(4)










Other days, I feel like this.ghetto_booty









But what am I going to do about it? Maybe I could make like my twin Kim K and invest my spare change towards a $3000 a day personal booty tailer. Only problem is, that’s more than I make in a month, so I think I’ll take the more self empowered route, and just werk what I got!








And for a bit of a lol, apparently having a ‘ghetto booty’ is now a medical condition. When Tennessee woman Terry Ragland went to the doc complaining of lower back pain, the legend told her ‘I know what the problem is. Ghetto Booty’. Shocked, she replied ‘Excuse me, Ghetto what?’. So it seems she was a bit offended by this “sexist” remark, but all I have to say is.. shotgun using that excuse for the next time I can’t be assed getting out of bed for a 7am start. Sorry sir, my ghetto booty is playing up something cronic today. Probs will be out of action for the rest of the week.


I think I’m in love!

Crush. noun.

Hopeless infatuation with a person.

A cold and empty romance that will never actually happen.

A painful experience common to kids and young adults that involves being obsessed with someone.


Crush. verb.

To pulverize, to destroy with great force.


I would like to think of myself as an expert on the topic of crushes. In my short 21 years, I have had more crushes than vodka OJ’s..and that’s really saying something, as I may have a serious drinking problem. From the outside, it would seem that I don’t really have a type as such, that I can form unhealthy borderline stalker like attachments to men of any age, appearance and personality type. I like em tall, I like em short. As long as I can stare into them creepily, I don’t care about eye colour. Same goes for hair. As long as you’ve got some, you’re in (that said, I’d run my fingers over Chris Judd’s magnificent bald head any day). Really, my only non negotiables are: job, car, penis. Not necessarily in that order.

History shows that my crushes can be categorized into two distinct groups.

A)    Real life unattainable boys. Basically sums up my high school experience. Think older, cooler, most popular guy in school, complete with a bad ass element pencil case and shorts half way down his backside. I found them in all areas of the school, from the rugged, cocky captain of the footy team, to the sweet crooner in the choir room. Although they were all very different, they all knew how to wear their shirts untucked in that way that got my heart racing. Another thing they had in common; they all had no idea I existed.

B)    Celebrity fantasy boyfriends. Now these crushes were a bit more fun, because with these luscious leading men, I could really indulge in the fantasy of it all. I’m talking fully thought out and imagined back stories. Take Zac Efron – we met when he came to Adelaide to promote a movie and had breakfast at the café where I work. I cooked him a full breaky, our eyes locked over the counter, and he gave me a wink and his number on a napkin. He flew me over to LA on a private jet and treated me to a night of champagne and chocolate covered strawberries. It was magical. But of course, our busy schedules got in the way, and it didn’t work out. But we’re still very good friends. Unfortunately, the chances of me meeting Channing Tatum in the supermarket, or any (or every) member of One Direction while out with the gals is pretty slim.

Whether they’re unattainable in my real life, or in my dreams, there is one thing that all of these men have in common. They’re men! The term girl crush gets thrown around a lot these days, and I have to say that I haven’t quite jumped on that bandwagon yet. Don’t get the wrong idea! As much as I love my girlfriends, and adore marvelling at how strong, independent, intelligent, and beautiful they all are, I’ve never really been one to ‘girl crush’. But that says more about me and my issues than anything else. When I see a successful, beautiful woman, rather than admire her, and wonder where she gets her hair done, my first instinct is one of jealousy. Call it irrational, but I know I’m not the first gal to instantly hate on the baddest bitch in da club just coz.

As with most things in life, except of course when it comes to bros b4 hoes, there are some exceptions to the rule. One word. Beyonce. Another slightly less bootylicious but none the less exceptionally amazing exception to my anti girl crush rule is Emma Stone. And because it’s my blog and I can do whatever the hell I want, I will now proceed to tell ya’ll why Em can do no wrong!


  1. She’s a RANGA…well, sort of.

Even though technically Emma is a natural blonde, I’m calling it. Just like Aussies have been stealing from the Kiwis for years: Pavlova and Russel Crowe, I have decided that we auburn haired gals are claiming Emma as one of our own. Don’t fight me on this. Just let it slide. Us Rangas don’t have much to get excited about these days, what with our population dwindling and all.


  1. She’s a basic bitch just like you and I.

If you haven’t heard of the term ‘basic bitch’, then it probably means that you aren’t a basic bitch and don’t spend your entire life watching YouTube videos…and actually have interests other than the Jonas Brothers and Keeping Up with the Kardashians. However, now the rest of us can rejoice and own our basicness, coz if it’s good enough for my gal Emma then it’s sure as hell good enough for me! Also, she memorized all of the Spice Girl’s autographs and can replicate them on demand. There’s nothing basic about that. That takes pure skill.


  1. She looks incredible in everything. Legit, all the time.

I think a picture speaks a thousand words. In the case of this particular image of Em at the 2014 Met Gala, I’d like to quote the words of miss Foxy Cleopatra, coz damn she’s a whole lotta woman!



  1. She’s not just a pretty face.

I believe Emma Stone to be the whole package. Not only does this girl have beauty, killer pins, a husky voice that drives us wild, and an epic sense of humour, she’s also got some serious brains! Known for calling out sexism in the media and film industry, she uses her superwoman confidence to speak up and fight for what she believes in! She even corrected her Spiderman boyfie of 3 years Andrew Garfield when he accidently made a cringy comment about sewing not being a manly activity in front of some young impressionable school kids. Not cool.


  1. Speaking of Andrew Garfield…

Can they just stop being so cute? And by that, I mean, can you please never, ever, ever break up..ever!


  1. She’s successful and ambitious, and knows what she wants.

When it comes to her career, this girl means business! At the age of 15, Em managed to persuade her parents to let her move to LA to pursue acting through what must have been an extremely convincing and epic PowerPoint presentation titled ‘Project Hollywood’. Who does that? A bloody legend, that’s who! And wow did it pay off.


  1. She said this…

You’re only human. You live once and life is wonderful, so eat the red velvet cupcake.

You know what Emma Stone; I think I will have that cupcake!


  1. Finally…

She knows all the words to ‘All I Do is Win’ by DJ Kahled. I feel she may have been a glorious black woman in her previous life.


To eat, or not to eat?

It’s that eternal, all consuming question. Will I eat that packet of twisties? We’re all human, and for the most part, except for some extremely fussy and rude customers who have a special place in hell reserved for them, we’re all wired the same way. When it comes to our brains, there are a few basic necessities that consume our thoughts: love, money, friendships, sex, work, and family. And then there’s food. I’ve never been to the doc and had a scan done or anything, but I’m pretty sure there is a significantly larger amount of space dedicated in my brain purely to thinking about food than the average person. Not sure about anyone else, but I spend more time thinking about what I’m going to eat, what I have eaten, what I’d like to eat, and what I shouldn’t have eaten than I actually spend eating! Last night I found myself in that torturous position that anyone who has to keep a keen eye on their figures knows all too well. Sitting in the restaurant, on the outside I was the picture of happiness, but on the inside I was struggling between whether to order something “healthy”, or whether just to not give a fuck and have the giant plate of cheesy and oh so naughty nachos. It’s a struggle that so many of us go through daily, between what we want, and what we know we should have.

Food and I have always had a rocky relationship. Actually, I could probably compare my relationship with food to that of an actual relationship. When I was a child, food and I were the very best of friends. Just like at the beginning of a new relationship, everything was exciting, and I didn’t have a care in the world. I was always a chubby little gal, but I never cared. I’ve always been competitive, and before I was old enough to understand much about anything, I loved that I was bigger than the other kids. It was like a game, and I was the winner. It wasn’t until about year 6, when the idea of having a boyfriend suddenly became a thing, that I started to become conscious of how my body looked, but more importantly, of how others saw me. I wondered why the boys I liked didn’t like me back. No, it couldn’t have been my completely over the top, verging on ADD personality, or the fact that I had a thick, curly red mullet for most of my early teens. No, it was definitely because I was fat. At that point, I realised that there was a direct correlation between how much I weighed, and how much people liked me.

Throughout my teens, food and I had more ups and downs than an episode Game of Thrones. The honeymoon period was well and truly over, and things started to get hard. With so many mixed messages floating around, it’s no wonder I found it difficult to get things straight. So, was I meant to be loving myself, accepting my natural shape and all that shit? I’m sure they said that I should embrace what ma mamma gave me…which in my case is short legs and a delicious ghetto bootay. Wait, or am I meant to be striving to become the best version of myself, and always trying to improve and make changes for the better?

Now that I’m in my twenties, food and I are like an old married couple. We fight, we get annoyed at each other, and sometimes I really hate food! But on the other hand, I really looove food, and I can see the bigger picture. My emotions play a huge role in determining whether it’s going to be a jump out of bed and feel really good about myself while drinking my chia seed smoothie kind of day, or more like a 5 pieces of toast for breakfast and no makeup kind of thang. Almost without fail, I wake up everyday with the best intentions to have a “good” day. At 11am, when I accidently cook an extra serve of salty, crispy, gooey haloumi cheese at the café, my inner fat gal (let’s just call her Fran) starts to growl and lick her lips. Heel Fran!, I say, and throw that delicious cheese into the bin. I know, I know, it’s sacrilege, but I don’t need it. But come 3pm, after 8 hours on her feet, Fran is fucking pissed. She’s tired, flustered, and wants hot chips and a toastie, and just too easy to let her off the leash. And once she’s been set free, all hope is lost. I’m talking packets of BBQ shapes, slice after slice of white bread, cheese and butter. And god forbid I have cash on me coz then I’m heading straight to Baker’s Delight for a cutla cheesymite scrolls.

It always feels so good to let go, but then what? The guilt starts to set in about three quarters of the way through the packet of fruit chocs, and by the time it’s just me sitting on my bed surrounded by Bakers Delight wrappers and bread crumbs, all that insecurity and shame comes flooding back. For me, it’s a constant battle. It’s not the watching what goes into my mouth part that sucks, but more the negative connotations associated with what goes into my mouth. In what universe is it a criminal offence to eat a Tim Tam, or have a full cream coffee? It’s absolutely ludicrous, but it’s a shame there are so many of us out there that unfortunately have this mindset. I find the biggest challenge is taking the time to figure out, for what reason am I willing to drive to the 24 hour servo at midnight to buy, and then demolish a packet of barbie shapes? Is it coz I’m bored? Maybe I’m tired and feeling particularly bitchy. It doesn’t have anything to do with that guy not messaging me back, or that I had a fight with one of the girls, does it?

In the end, one packet of chips isn’t going to be life changing. I’m not going morph into a 200kg slug…but what could be life changing is a shift in attitude. Maybe I’ll re read this to myself next time I’m sitting in bed and start deliberating over whether to indulge in 10 slices of toast. Maybe it’ll help me to remember that I actually only really need one.




Not again…

I’m ashamed to say…it’s happened again people.

But let’s be honest, it’s not really that surprising, is it? Anyone who is like me and is partial to one, or ten shots (and not just of the tequila variety, we don’t discriminate here folks!) on a night out has found themselves in the position that I was in on Sunday morning. You know how it goes: beautiful early morning light filters softly in through the blinds. The sounds of chirping birds, happy families and frolicking children fill the crisp morning air. Freshly brewed coffee wafts down the hallway as your parents flick through the Sunday paper. And then there is you. Lying on the covers, not asleep but defs far from conscious, wearing your pj top on backwards and no pants. Lift up the doona and you’d find some crumbs from that ah-mazing cheese on toast you demolished at 3am, those pants you tried, and failed to put on, and the sneaky chicken fillets that gave you the confidence responsible for your current state. Still wearing all of your jewellery, you rub the mascara clumps out of your eyes, trying to determine if you are actually alive, but more importantly, the location of your phone. After a few moments of wallowing in your own pathetic existence, you can’t avoid it any longer. It’s the question that I myself almost never want to know the answer to…what the fuck happened last night?

I’d love to say that there are only a handful of times in my short life that I’ve suffered from post night out amnesia, but that would be a complete lie. The explanation for this, in one word: wine. There are a number of reasons why I find myself hesitant to piece together the previous night’s activities, but the three major ones would have to be: a) Who did I piss off? b) Who did I confess my undying love for? and c) Who saw the evidence of my disgrace? My problem, which I am always fully aware of but after 2 bottles of Sav Blanc seem to think I have perfectly under control, is that I can’t manage what comes out of my mouth when I’m sober, let alone when my inhibitions are at an all time low. On one particular occasion, after consuming more than a couple of rounds of everyone’s favourite drink special, 2 for 1 vodkas, I met, and fell in love with my soul mate. Only in the stark, unforgiving light of day did I discover he was twice my age, and most likely not the love of my life like I had thought. Come to think of it, there have been a few occasions when I’ve thought I’d snagged a potential bf from a late night hook up, only to never hear from them again. That’s probably because for most guys, loud, sloppy, and annoying aren’t adjectives used to describe potential gf material.

Another of my best party tricks would have to be the old falling over at the bar. Funnily enough, in my experience it seems bartenders are more likely to refuse you service when you fall over multiple times, and then request your sixth usual of the night. Who would’ve thought? I’ve also realised, thanks to those beautiful people who always manage to capture my finest moments on camera, that when I’m drunk, I sound exactly like how my mother talks after a glass and a half of Chardonnay. And that is NOT a good thing. In fact, in the nicest way possible, that is HORRIFIC! There have been times when I’ve adopted the policy that, because I don’t remember it, it never happened. There have also been times when I’ve wanted to hide my face under the covers with a bowl of Twisties and never show my face to society ever again. Then there’s been the times when I’ve desperately wished that I could remember, because I was on god damn fire, charming everyone with my rendition of Beyonce’s ‘Crazy in Love’, and pulling one liners out of my ass I’ll never get to use again.

Not that I would call myself an expert in the field, but I think I might just be qualified to give myself some advice on how to avoid getting so white girl wasted that I think that I’m Elena Gilbert and all my friends are actually secret vampires. For me, it’s all about the pre drinking. Going out to town is like playing a game of netball; you’re not going to perform as well if you don’t have a proper warm up strategy! That said, my new motto from now on will be: quality over quantity. Real life examples: 2 glasses of bubbly, over 7 plastic cups of Golden Oak Fruity Lexia. 1 shot of tequila, over an unquantifiable swig of $25 vodka. And also, I should probably just get better at drinking games…I’ve never been very good with numbers.