A seriously depressing tale

about buttholes falling out. Like, right out of your butthole.

Straight up. Buttholes can just come right out of a person.

Did I mention this is going to be depressing? Because it will be.

You know what an anal prolapse is, right? It’s when your butthole falls out.

Here’s an article by Michelle Lhooq for Vice about buttholes falling out (also kinda about the porn industry), if you’re as curious as I was about what the term ‘rosebud‘ means. And in that case, you might just be an over-thinker whose mind hurts from thinking too much about something you’ve seen in life and what might have caused it.

Guilty as charged.

I better stop putting off explaining exactly what I mean.

Two days ago, while procrastinating something somewhat important, I came across the article I linked to earlier. After reading it, I moved on and didn’t think much more about it. I did the somewhat important thing (eventually, and it took up a lot of time, I might add) and then came back home to go to sleep.
Of course, faced with the sight of my ceiling, my mind went into overdrive.

When I was nine years old, I went with my family on a vacation to Tonga, which you may or may not know is my mother’s country of origin. Anyway, we were there for quite a while, maybe two months, and generally, I loved being there. Some extremely insane shit happened, but those are a bunch of other stories for another day or two. All in all, I loved the place and I was sad to return home.

One of the things that remains burnt into my mind is something I saw whilst there.

Please bear with me; my poor li’l brain hurts and I know I mentioned this is going to be depressing and involves buttholes. And now it involves my childhood. Ugh, even better. Anyway.

I was wandering through my aunt’s yard, or rather, I was about to, because I remember standing in the back doorway, looking for my shoes. It was a beautifully sunny afternoon and I think I was about to go into the part of the family land that has guava vines and mango trees. I was also hoping to see one of the neighbour’s sows afterwards, and her relatively new piglets. I remember I was going to try and name them, even though I already had trouble telling them apart, but oh well.

Shoes: found. Yay, walkies. I saw my younger cousin sitting on the grass a few metres from me, so I called out to him, thinking he might wanna come and pick fruit with me and maybe even feed some to the sow I was fixing to see. I thought it might be a cute, fun thing to do with my little cousin, because of course taking a three-year old to see pigs and piglets is cute and fun.

Relatively simple childhood thought.

I called his name, and he jumped a little. Oh no, I thought. I gave him a fright. It seemed OK as soon as he saw it was me, because he replied with my name and leaned forward to get up from his sitting position. As toddlers are sometimes wont to do, he’d been running around in the yard without pants on after a funny little water-fight some of us had earlier, because it was pretty damned hot that day.

He started screaming and crying when he got into this semi-squatting position, and I looked and noticed something was hanging from him, so I thought he’d sat on something and it was hurting him, maybe? I was confused, so I went over to help and comfort him.

I noticed the thing hanging from him was pink and sore-looking and had pieces of grass and grains of sand stuck to it. I was horrified and confused, but I wanted to help. Not that I knew what to do. Just as I was a couple of steps away, his mother appeared and yelled at him to stop screaming. She then picked him up (very hurriedly and roughly, I might add) and walked past me to take him inside.

As I embarked on the walk / tiny adventure I wanted so badly, I wondered what the fuck just happened. Left alone with my thoughts, I racked my brain to guess what the fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck just happened.

Earlier today, I found myself realising that he had an anal prolapse. That was what was attached to him. That was what was causing him to scream his sad screams. So, I wondered, what causes a little boy’s rectum to just come out of where it belongs like that? A little boy who was handed from home to home. One who jumped in fright when his name was called out.

I froze in abject horror.





My eyes welled up as I realised what happened.

Sorry, I better cut this short. I can’t presently deal with this.


50 more miscellaneous thoughts.



  1. Gary Numan’s “We’re the Unforgiven” sounds very Reznor-y, which is nice.
  2. Why is lace called lace? Was the original piece of lace stitched / knitted with someone’s laces? Because, in my mind, that is neither pretty nor fancy. Probably lumpy and a tiny bit dirty. Please let this be true.
  3. Where’d the Sugababes go? Remember them? Bet you remember Mutya Buena, at least. I read somewhere she went bankrupt, which must be the pits.
  4. I’ve been getting a lot of calls from random numbers and it’s scaring me. Fuck’s sake; sometimes I can’t even handle calls from people I know and trust, so just stop it, you cunt(s).
  5. Boots are better than any other type of shoe, I’m pretty sure. APART FROM THE OPEN-TOED / SLING-BACKED ONES UGH YOU CAN’T MIX SANDALS AND CLOGS AND HAVE IT BE A BOOT.
  6. Yes, I am tired of the ‘patriarchy’ / ‘matriarchy’, everyone is. Almost as tired as I am of discussing it all. We should just let the fucktards die out and do our best to make sure their effects aren’t felt beyond that.
  7. I’m drinking a type of tea that’s called ‘be happy‘ and I fucking resent that which means I probably haven’t had enough of it. Maybe I should crack the ‘be sleepy’ box so I can nap through this crisis.
  8. I no longer crave the security that ‘spooning’ provides. There’s something not quite so secure about being jabbed in the backs of my thighs and I’m sure nobody misses eating my hair as I toss and turn and mumble curses at things.
  10. Why can’t I find the Tamagotchi movie anywhere? Excuse me, but my search terms are tight-as-fuck, so c’mon, let’s go, what gives?
  11. I wonder how my brother’s going.
  12. Filling my life with cute things has not made things easier. Just slightly cuter, that’s all. WHAT DO YA KNOW.
  13. I once scared someone away by spouting “homeless drunk conspiracy theories”. Fuck it, actually, it wasn’t just once. I think it’s a useful gauge of quite a few things – namely a sense of humour, ability to discuss things that don’t make sense, how judgmental someone is… things like that. AND IT’S MORE FUN THAN FINGER PAINTS WHICH ARE LACED WITH MAGNETISED HEAVY METALS SO ALL WE WANT TO DO IS TOUCH ON OUR PHONES AND LAPPYTAPPIES OMG WE’RE ALL PART OF THE BIG MACHINE OH WELL AT LEAST IT MAKES ME BETTER AT FIGHTING IN THE STREET OVER THINGS IN PAPER BAGS LIKE BOOZE AND PASTRIES WHICH AREN’T BAD FOR ME AT ALL SO DO YOU STILL WANNA KNOW WHAT I’M WEARING BECAUSE SO DO I OH GOD DO I EVER.

  14. Look here, lack of censorship is more important than proper resolution today. Because.
  15. I always assumed Justin Roiland (Rick and Morty) could burp on command, but he can’t. I still remember discovering I could swallow air and burp it up again… I remember thinking, “fuck Sports Day, but this is still the best day ever.”
  16. I just realised I have two articles open right now: ‘The Gay Men who Have Sex with Women‘ (Broadly) and ‘Inside the Group of Straight Men who are Swearing off Women‘ (Vice).
  17. I had to tie two teabags together because the steeping tab / dunking cord / dip-string THING snapped off one of them. The surviving piece of paper said “be gentle with me, I ‘brews’ easily!” because Healtheries thinks they’re hilarious. Health-arious. Yup, fine. But let’s all take a second to think about, y’know, testicles. Like how it’s horrible that some have to deal with having such a fragile appendage on the outside of their bodies, just hanging off the front like that. Like how breasts do, but at least people like how cleavage looks. OK I’m done thinking about it now. AND I’M DONE FEELING BAD FOR MEN LOL ESPECIALLY THE ‘WHITE’ ONES LIKE WTF CHECK YOUR PRIVILEGE & SHIT LOL YEH AMIRITE?
  18. I wonder what animal I’d be if given the chance to switch (you watched / read Animorphs, too, right?). Would I climb? Swim? Fly? Would I be conscious enough to care? Could I switch back or not? WOULD I BE CONSCIOUS ENOUGH TO CARE, THOUGH?
  19. I really should just shut the fuck up forever. Except shutting the fuck up hurts, but maybe I deserve to be hurt. Forever. Oh, god. Just shut the fuck up.
  20. The two-bag tea just burned my lip. fuckshitsucks.
  21. I once opened up a fortune cookie for it to tell me: You would make a good lawyer for no detail escapes your attention. I stuck it on a place on a desk that would hopefully be noticed by an eye for detail, because I am at least as funny as Healtheries.
  22. My flatmate’s cat has taken to placing his paws on my shoulder(s) as a play for attention, and he also does that paw-on-knee thing that I can’t help but anthromorphise. AWWW WHO’S A GOOD BOY. YOU’RE A GOOD BOY, VICTOR. AND WE ARE BROS.
  23. It’s just no good when stuff looks like it should glow in the dark, then doesn’t. All wrong. Back-ass-wards. It’s supposed to look all innocuous and then you turn the lights off and BAM you’re left wondering how you didn’t notice this would happen and YAY. But, no. Sad.
  24. I am deathly afraid of pregnancy, both in myself and others. Almost on cue, a man walked past my window with a sleeping child and it was cute and everything but I can’t deal with these thoughts and humans are humans and feelings are weird and my body is stupid.
  25. Vacuuming is an OK chore, but bed-making can just get out.
  26. Why do people feel ashamed of what they like? People are always gonna give you shit, so go on ahead and enjoy Macklemore / haggis / getting pissed on / sniffing marker pens / rappin’ for Jesus if you want to. Take THAT, society…?
  27. It’s a tiny bit painful to see someone play with drumsticks that don’t match, but such is life.
  28. The more that your mental instability looks like physical suffering, the more sympathy you’ll get. I wish this wasn’t true, and maybe one day it won’t be.
  29. Any more about “cultural appropriation” and I’m gonna burst in an explosion of disgust and pus and annoyance. There are no true originals anymore, only racist gits who tell ‘white’ people they can’t do anything based on another culture (what is ‘white’ anyway? There’s so many types of ‘white’ that I don’t know where to begin, so I won’t). Halloween’s coming up; don’t make me fight you.
  30. There’s no way I’d be able to keep a record of all the books I’ve read ever, but I think it’s nice that some people keep a copy of each book they’ve read. I’m not sure that’d be feasible for me, unless it was a Kindle / tablet type-o’-dealio.
  31. Why is it that I look bigger when I’m naked? Is my brain doing the fun-house mirrors thing again? Fuck knows. Hurry up and get dressed.
  32. I used to intentionally slurp and burble water during exams just so I could see who looked up. I love stoners so much, so, so, much.
  33. What’s the point in calling anyone stupid? The point is to hurt them… isn’t it? I should never do it again. Tolerating it is fine though, because you can feel good about how the other person just lost their cool by calling you stupid. Like if someone hits first, they lost the verbal round prior. Or if someone talks about how Hitler had a good point, they’re most likely not anyone’s sensei.
  34. Isn’t it fun that RuPaul’s Drag Race exists? Now, if only they could all get along… although that may spoil the entire premise. Fuck it, RuPaul’s awesome.
  35. What I like most about hip-hop is all the sampling. Not only because one artist can expose their fans to the other one’s music, but it’s also a dearly sweet and adorable way of showing that one artist was not only once but still a fan of the other, like you may be. I guess that’s what I enjoy about music in general. And, zooming out, art as well. AND LIFE WOAH WOAH LIFE AND THINKING ABOUT IT AND THINGS AND JUNK AND SHIT AND STUFF.
  36. It’s not actually that funny when someone asks what you’re doing, so you say “stuff.” and they say “hahah quit messin with me” and you reply “no, I was just done with typing the word “stuff” because I got distracted by you and forgot the word I originally meant to use.”
  37. To which they reply: “hahah random” and you drop your phone and decide not to waste your time with that shit right now but they’ll call later and get all shitty you didn’t pick up but you’re too busy tripping over yourself and how you may have just sounded and blah blah blah how many drinks did I chill? Anything cold enough yet? I’ma get one.
  38. Should I get fat again just to prove to everyone that I once was? Because nobody believes me. Wait. Did I just ask myself (and you, by proxy, you rather attractive proxy, you) if I should mess with my own body just to prove a point to people I’m making up in my head? God. I’m probably just hungry.
  39. I just looked back during one of the many mini-spellchecks that invade my thinking and therefore general output and saw that “mes” wasn’t underlined. So, I thought, “what the fuck that does that mean” and looked up “mes” just to find: A manufacturing execution system (MES) is a control system for managing and monitoring work-in-process on a factory floor. An MES keeps track of all manufacturing information in real time, receiving up-to-the-minute data from robots, machine monitors and employees.
    I appreciate the robot / factory / machine / productivity references, but that’s not common enough to let slip. This is only intensifying my obsession, here. Aw.
  40. I heard a narrator of a documentary say something about how a certain artist’s creative pace slowed somewhat due to their becoming a father. I’m laughing my guts out, thinking how that person helped create a human and how that’s actually really creative and sorry but that’s dumb to say.
  41. Why is it that a lot of so-called happy music seems to infuriate a lot of people and so-called sad music does the reverse? Should someone tell the children this is the case? With any luck, they might tell us why, right? They’re the future, they should know. Yeah? Is it because we don’t like doing what we’re told? Urrrgh.
  42. I wonder what it’d take for me to make a cat-o’nine-tails for myself. Excuse me a sec.
  43. I wonder how many dead microphones there would be if they could smell the breath of the person nearest. Admittedly, I think I would’ve killed at least 3 – 5? Hard to know for sure.
  44. Is it true that Mike Patton did a shit into Axl Rose’s hairdryer, once upon a time? It sounds like a fairy tale that I wanna illustrate. Because that’s funny as hell.
  45. It’d be nice if Layne Staley was still alive. At least Alice in Chains still lives.
  46. You’re an idiot, Ilene. Never forget.
  47. I should make my art in more ways that aren’t temporary.
  48. The thing about taking painkillers and antibiotics simultaneously is that the condition(s) you’re taking them for sometimes weakens your immune system in a way that the meds can’t keep up with. A piercing I got over three weeks ago is still infected in a way that makes me look cartoonish. I look like I’ve had bad filler injections. It’s so super shit. But it’s made me quiet in a way that I’m curious about. Sure, it’s depressing to be less expressive than you’d like, but I’m introspective anyway and sometimes it’s good for me to shut up and be alone with myself and focus on getting better. As limited as it is, the medications help, I suppose. But it’s still embarrassing as shit and I haven’t been leaving the house much.
  49. A few terms I’ve been hearing that I don’t really like for no discernible reason: “fusion cuisine”, “stunned mullet”, “clientele” (but only when someone pronounces it ‘klee-on-tell’, ugh, it just shits me), “roadside assistance”, “so close, yet so far”.
  50. Will coffee cure my omelette-burps or only make a bad situation worse? Because I’ve had more than enough of that damned tea for now.

I’ve been trying really hard to pull my head out already,

which is to say, I’m really sick of being sad.

It’s terribly draining to be sad for long periods of time, but I’m sure everyone knows that.
There’s a million reasons any person can be sad, reasons occurring both internally and externally.
We all work differently, live differently, see things differently, and learn things differently.
We have all had unique experiences that have led us to where we are today, experiences that a lot of people would say is a ‘journey’ to get to the exact spot they are this second. And the next second. The one after that, and also this one. And so on.

I better get to the point, for all our sakes; we’re wasting valuable seconds here! Shit!

Anyway, I know what it’s like to be sad in my own way, and you must know what makes you sad too, because you’ve been sad before in your own way too, because something hurt you.

This goes for everybody.

And that in itself makes me a bit sad, but it’s true. Yep, that’s the only word I’m going use to describe it. Sad. It was some sad-ass sadness, I tell you WHUT. But, the thing is, I decided to pull my head out of my own sadness the other day and get my head in some of the sadnesses of others.

Of course, I started with the internet, mainly because my laptop was the only thing I found mildly interesting within arm’s reach during this particular instance of me feeling fed up with my sadness, and, well, also because it’s the number-one source of information about anything, ever (Shout out to Tim Berners-Lee, you hero, you).

I typed ‘sadness’ into Google. That was step one. I found a whole lot there:
﴾descriptions to describe sadness and its function in the human brain
﴾stock images of people with their heads in their hands
﴾a Wikipedia definition that sums it up more or less logically
﴾WikiHow’s5 Ways to Overcome Sadness
﴾a surprisingly deep definition on Urban Dictionary.

…that’s to mention a small handful.

And, kind of abruptly, I started laughing at the fact I just typed ‘sadness’ into a a search engine, and started to wonder if I’d just lost my sanity for a second and should just close all tabs and stand up and clean my damned room or something.
But, then, I thought, fuck it. I deserve to laugh at something, so I’ll laugh at myself, because I forgive myself that. I just want to hear myself laugh again. I’m fed up with being sad so I’ll fucking laugh at myself because that’s my god-damned right, I’ve fucking earned it after all this self hate.
And then I’ll stop laughing at myself, and somehow laugh with myself – in a more compassionate way, because I feel better and less insane after a cackling fit (I HAVE NO IDEA HOW THAT WORKS EITHER BUT THAT’S OK).

I forgot that the differences between things aren’t the only important thing in the world. It’s important to notice the similarities, too. For some reason I’m not entirely clear on, I found it really fucking hilarious that I have never come to this simple, sobering and comforting fact before.

I feel a bit better now.

You’re very articulate for a Tongan, did you know that?

This kind of thing used to make me indiscriminately angry, despite the half-melted nuggets of a compliment being present in this god-damned biscuit of a sentence.

My “white” half gets pretty insulted too, seeing as it’s invisible most of the time. And no, this isn’t some sort of veiled complaint about how my feet are dead-person pale because I don’t go barefoot in the sun often enough. No, that’s not it, home-skeez. The fact is, according to a lot of people, if you’re a little bit coloured, then you’re a whole lot coloured.
My favourite example of this is Barack Obama. I mean, most of us know he has a so-called white parent, but that gets in the way when one wants to emphasise how progressive the world now is for having a black president all up in its guts.
Of course I understand how momentous that is, due to caring about Civil Rights problems and believing that everyone deserves a fair go in life. But I don’t like score-keeping and vague definitions of character.

OK, so I still get all pissy about it. I thought I grew out of it, but… …nah. This means I have to go deeper. Screw it, I’m game.

I’ve had something of a larger-than-average vocabulary for as long as I can remember, so, a while ago, I decided to ask who was responsible: my mother. And she ended up telling me what I thought she would, something like, “I imagined my two brown babies having nothing to say in a room full of smart whites, and it made me cry.” That kind of fear is very real, even though it may seem a bit melodramatic. That fear will drive a woman to teach her kids to read before kindergarten. It’ll make her massively angry when her brown babies are made to feel blue. It’ll make her beg them to make sunshine of her struggle.

And, sadly, it’ll hang a yoke around my neck that I don’t deserve.

As up-myself as it may sound, I generally feel like I’m representing something that’s marginalised, and I think that’s because I inhabit a lot of grey (or beige?) areas. I’m a tiny ambassador, I guess. If I’m not taking the left-hand path (HELLO SATAN), then I’m trying to wend my way through the middle. It’s kinda difficult when I get a lot of, “What… are you doing here?!”, but at least that gives me an opportunity to tell someone exactly why.

And god damn it if it doesn’t feel good to drop some knowledge on some motherfuckers.


they are not all motherfuckers. If I’m all about both halves of myself, then I have to admit that it’s nobody’s actual fault that stereotypes exist and get fulfilled more often than they perhaps should, and I also need to remind myself that there are other races far more marginalised than the ones my body contains. It’s no good to snap at someone because you hand-picked a few words to focus on, and it sure is silly to be the person who invites the US VERSUS THEM vibe into the room (guilty as charged), so it’s good to try my favourite thing instead: disarming, simplistic honesty.

“You’re kinda smart for an Islander.”
“Thank you! I’m clever and brown. I’m also female and prone to fainting spells. This is a conversation; you’re having one with me! Discuss.”

P.S.: Tongans call me white/palangi/hinehina all the time too, so, yeah, it cuts both ways. But I don’t usually get angry when there’s food involved, no matter who you are. You can call me whatever you want when I’m eating your chicken.
; )

If you voted National, please delete me. NOW. Anyway…

Govt Spikes Removal of Paedophile Name Suppression Bill

Rt Hon Winston Peters

New Zealand First Leader
1 APRIL 2015

Government Spikes Removal of Paedophile Name Suppression Bill

Parliament today refused leave for the Member for Northland Rt Hon Winston Peters to introduce a Bill to remove the right of paedophiles to name suppression when the victim wants their attacker named.

A host of National MPs objected to the Bill being introduced.

Mr Peters says he is disappointed the government is content to allow paedophiles to hide behind a cloak of secrecy.

“This is often imposed on the basis it protects the victim,” he says. “But in cases where the victim wants exposure of the crime and not secrecy our Bill will remove the subjudice rule, name suppression, and the legal cone of silence.”

The New Zealand First Leader sought leave for the Bill, Criminal Procedure (Removing Paedophile Name Suppression) Amendment Bill, to be introduced and debated on the next members’ day.



















*edit (8th Sep ’15) OOH LOOK AT ALL MY CAPSLOCK FURY. 

<(._.<) <(._.)> (>._.)>
^^^ so here’s a dancing marshmallow ’cause hell yes.

What’s Eating Me (or This Was Hard to Type and Title)

Yeah, I know what you're thinking and yes, I'm looking pretty good in this one.

Clock face all up in your… face…

I haven’t been myself for a long time. I don’t know how to word that a whole lot better, but I’ll try.

Quite a long time ago, my mother had a health scare. Luckily, the issue was caught in time… just. I panicked, then I researched. I figured that the more I knew about what happened and why, the better I’d be insured against this threat. I got my check-ups and apparently, I was in the clear. Despite this, ever since I found out the problem likes to run in some families, I just knew I’d be one of the unlucky ones.

Years later, I was right.

And now I see the inside of a lot of plain rooms with clocks in them.
I see a few doctors.
I fill in a lot of forms.
I make a lot of jokes.
I create a lot of silences.
And I wait. For phone calls, test results, for the receptionist to call my name.
I wait for the right time to tell my loved ones. And when I get the guts to do that, suddenly the information has changed. If my condition improves, I tell myself I can inform people when it’s all over and done with. If my condition worsens, I tell myself it’s not time to burden anyone with such news.

I’ve just been informed that I’m in remission from cervical cancer. Again.

I don’t know how to feel about that or what to do. All I know is that some days, everything tastes like metal and I’ll sick up anything I eat, in triplicate. And then some days, it’s like nothing’s wrong. The other days in between are spent waiting. Not living. Not dying. Just being. Just waiting.

Anyway, I made some appointments and found a thing I wrote the first time my symptoms remitted. Here’s the thing.

A stay of execution,
a sigh of relief.
A sign of improvement
somehow incomplete.

If I’m going to die, I’d like to know why.
I want to live with terms better defined.

Saved from blades,
but not waiting-room charades.
Fears can only deepen
when you’re stuck in a bed you can’t sleep in.

May I trade a subsidy of pain
for my god-given right to complain?

Tell the reaper I’m not here.
Tell the house I have no bones.
Tell my parents I love them
and that I need a minute to be alone.

Formes Frustes – Remission (2014)

Found a poem I made

about someone whose father I saw in the street not long ago.

It made me think about the fact that I won’t snob someone just because I had beef with one of their loved ones, and how lucky I feel when that sentiment is returned. I don’t know about his son, but I know he’s a good guy and I’m genuinely interested in his life.

I recall him looking sunburned-as-lobster-dick as he told me about a fishing trip he’s back from, and how his son was “stupid to lose you, but at least it’s not a loss for you”. As much as I wanted to tell him off for talking shit about his kid (sorry, I’m sure I meant “adult offspring”) when he’s not around to defend himself, I just couldn’t be bothered. And I see that he doesn’t really mean his son’s a loser, he just wanted to show me some empathy or something to that effect. Whatever it was, I’m sure it came from a place of love and concern.

And that feeling reminded me of how it felt to dump his son, eight years ago. Nine? Hmm…

You know when someone’s just issued you an ultimatum you can’t stop laughing at because they’ve already left you a million times?

When you realise maybe someone’s threat could possibly be as hollow as their skull?

When you feel like saying, “You can’t fire me, I quit! Not that you were ever boss. Actually, fuck you. I’m tired.” ?

Then you cry, because this person was your favourite human, then changed into something else in front of you. And all you could do was watch. Then you kick the shit out of his family’s letterbox (all paid and apologised for, as of a month after the incident) because you don’t like crying, and yet, here you are, on the pavement, looking like bad voodoo in pigtails. And you’re just so damned tired.

And then you go home and write about it in your journal that you’ll find when you move house, at age twenty-six.

Know that feeling? Excellent! Well, then.

Lost the blame game.
This horse is lame.
Get your gun
And meet me in the yard.
I don’t feel your shame,
And if it’s all the same,
I’m stunned
You’re taking this so hard.

Formes Frustes – Clutching at the Last Straw (2006-ish)