Beauty, black comedy, Comedy, creative, Dating, Death, diet and lifestyle, Humour, Lifestyle, Philosophy, Pop culture, Single Life, Writing


“Freedom is what we do with what is done to us.”

 ― Jean-Paul Sartre

Sometime, in early January, I was swimming laps at the pool. This is a fairly common occurrence. I try to go a few times a week. It clears my head, tones my arse, gives me an opportunity to cook for looks. This time, however, I had a bit of a life changing moment. It involved a man.

He was probably in his late 30s. He wasn’t a particularly attractive man. Normally, I wouldn’t notice him. Fortunately, for me, I did notice him. He did the most fucked up, intense, bellyflop I had ever seen. He got out of the pool and tried again.

I did a few kick board laps to suss out the situation. Basically, this man was learning to swim. He was having lessons. He was terrible. He asked so many questions. The coach was clearly frustrated. But, the man persisted. I think it was one of the loveliest things I have ever seen.

I went home feeling inspired. I couldn’t think of a time I had ever been that brave.

I’ve seen him there a few times now. He has gotten much better. A few weeks ago I congratulated him like a creepy stalker bitch. He said it was something he had just always wanted to do. Again, I was so impressed. So often my motivation has been something lame like get skinny and maybe get laid. This needed to change.

I decided to go for a run. Clear my head. Listen to the only man I should ever get sweaty with, Phil Collins.

As I ran I got in to my groove. I was feeling it. Then, the music stopped. Some other device was using my account. This isn’t that unusual. My darling Rose and I share everything.

However, this time it was connected to a mans iphone. Not just any man. A cheap cut of meat, you all know as Brisket. That bastard had stolen my favourite flannel shirt and my Spotify Premium. Blood boiled, revenge felt necessary.

I thought about it more. I thought about the man  at the pool. I had spent so many hours sitting at skate parks while we dated. The whole time I was so bored. I’ve always really wanted to skate. This would be a perfect opportunity, but, I was scared of looking stupid. I continued to sit there.

Despite watching Puberty Blues in year 10 health class. I had clearly learnt nothing from Debbie Vickers. I was letting my sistahs down.  Sometimes, I’d even go buy beers for the boys. What a fucking bowl mole. I felt worse than Sheryl after a trip to Bruce’s panel van followed by a tactical horse ride in the morning. Both bareback, of course.

An idea formed. The plan was simple. I’d commit fraud. After a few minutes on the internet I had chosen a lovely new board RRP $350. Thanks to a certain someone having sponsorships and the same passwords for everything. It was $0. He gets like 10 a month. I deserved this. I picked it up from the warehouse the following day. I was shitting myself but remaining calm. It was a fun time.

I’ve been practicing ever since. I’m actually pretty bloody good. I can even drink a beer while turning corners. It’s just something I’ve always really wanted to do.

Beauty, black comedy, Christmas, Comedy, creative, Dating, Death, diet and lifestyle, Europe, Food, Gourmet, Humour, Lifestyle, Love, Music, Philosophy, Pop culture, Single Life, Television, Travel, Writing


“I’m sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody.”

– J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey

I’m so fucking sick of people on social media telling 2016 to fuck off. 

Firstly, most of them obviously have a phone and access to internet. So your life can’t be that fucking bad.

Secondly, the main reason everyone is saying fuck off. Is because a few famous people died. 

I get it. I loved Bowie, Cohen was a king, Alan Rickman was sexy, Gene Wilder was hot, Prince was as the name suggests. It’s a weird feeling. But remember, they all lived full, drug influenced lives. I think most of them were surprised they lived that long. 

 Plus, we didn’t actually know them. Mourn a little, feel sorry for people that did know them, then move on.

Don’t try and start a twitter war on why you loved them more. How they meant more to you than a wank bank deposit. Don’t dump these individuals in to one ‘fuck my terrible privileged year on earth’ category. Don’t play favourites and put the value of someones life above anothers. It’s narcissistic and tacky. Mourning and death isn’t a popularity contest. No one really cares about your Instagram.

There’s a whole lot more important stuff going on in the world. Direct your inspo quotes at that. Bowie would’ve wanted it that way.

Look at the positives. These tragedies often bring people together to celebrate life. I went to a night 100% dedicated to several of my music icons. I watched movies I loved again. It was inspirational. 

2016 is a year to promote change. Decisions were questionable. It’s highlighted the issues of racism, homophobia, sexism and how fucking dumb people are. We needed to see this pussy grabbing, Vegemite hating scum. Now we need to educate. Aware this is simplifying an incredibly complicated issue.

Anyway, rant over. 2016 was a glorious year. I moved in to my dream house. I discovered heaven is a place on Earth called Psarakos. We live in a wonderful and diverse city.

I got completely dickstracted for several months. Was reminded of how much I love doing that. I realised it wasn’t right. I had the freedom to move on. I didn’t contract STIs from Colombia. My doctors appointment was bulk billed. Fucking bonus. 

I got to travel to one of my favourite places on earth all while earning a hospo wage. Many in Mexico will never leave their town let alone their country. 

I reckon we can all pull heads out of arse and be a bit more bloody appreciative. Just saying.

Ps. Aware I’m using the internet to talk about myself blah blah. Fuck off.

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“There is scarcely any passion without struggle.”

-Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays

When it comes to men, decorating and food. I have the palette of a 74 year old woman. Anything not dead, crocheted or containing port, liquorice and fruit mince is desirable.

Food wise Christmas is ideal. Sweltering hot days knocking back stout and dense fruitcake is a wet dream.

Fruit mince pies are the fucking best. I average 4 a day in the weeks leading up to baby Jesus’s social debut. It’s basically the highlight of my life.

This time 3 years ago, I was incredibly drunk. I’d just finished a shift at The Roy. I’d stayed 6 hours after and had drank all the beer. 

It was too early for a tram and uber wasn’t in my vocabulary yet. I decided to walk home. It would take approximately   2 hours. 

39 minutes in to the journey, a fucking Christmas miracle occurred. No, I didn’t get laid. Something much better happened.

As I drunkenly stumbled, a truck pulled up. It was driven by  a man. He asked me if I liked fruit mince pies. None of this seemed weird to me after 7 litres of beer. I just casually replied yes. My knight in shining armour then passed me a tray of 12 fruit mince pies. Something to do with failed delivery. Something I didn’t give a flying fuck about. I ate 5.

Later, I arrived home. I felt guilty about eating 5 pies. I decided the best thing to do was buy some bacon and eggs. I had a proper breakfast. This justified eating 5 more. By now it was 7am. I passed out. Woke up at 1pm and ate the last 2. Best fucking day.

Three years later, slightly more controlled. I ate 4 from Philippa’s bakery. They were rejects given to the mountain goats. Delicious, a classic. Good, with a crumbly, sweet pastry. Inoffensive, like a 1st date that doesn’t try to finger you. Mention to mum but then get bored and forget to call back.

I had 1 at Le Bakehouse on lygon st. Fuck me it was good. Rich and dense, like my ideal man. I couldn’t put it all in my mouth, it was too much. So sweet, but, still so bitter. It’s the one night stand of the pie world. Crumbs got everywhere. I felt dirty after.

Finally, Sookies, my local cafe. Game changer. Home made but not shit. I was informed by the owner it was prepared by her mother in law. Filling was soaked 3 months in advance. Pastry contained no sugar. This and generous amounts of ginger won my heart. I ate 6 in total. Kind of like a guy you fuck heaps then realise he has a great personality. You eventually introduce to the parents then do it in their bed.

Mine were still the best. Now to focus on kale and my thighs. Merry Christmas xxx

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Cheating Death…



“You never oughta drink water when it ain’t runnin’.”

-John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men 

I had a bit of a thing last week. It’s not a huge deal. I just kind of nearly died a few times. Im being dramatic. Very close one time. The other would have been more of a life changing injury. Luckily, I had some sort of Cheating Karma (no chlamydia, thank fuck) So, no death. Halle-Bloody-Berry-lujah!

The first incident occurred on an unusually proactive Thursday. My Mother, who had been visiting for the week, just left in her Uber. I love my Mum. Absolutely adore her. However, the moment she left, I felt a rush of energy. 

Maybe, it was the kilos of Magnesium or the involuntary Reiki sessions (Rapey) from her. Maybe, it was the 7000 serves of poached eggs and avo I’d consumed with her. It may have been Mother’s love. Or, knowing me, the idea of internet privacy again. Regardless, that day, I was achieving at life.

It started with a swim. A good 2km before lunch. Then I went grocery shopping. I even managed to obtain a $4.99 Rosé. Next, I went Pinata shopping. Who even am I?!

Once home, I enjoyed the World Wide Web. The day could’ve ended there, but, no. Mother’s gentle but persistant suggestions had planted seeds. I had to mow the front lawn.

I chilled the wine and put on that beautiful man, Annie Lennox. I Changed in to a good garden hoe outfit. Then proceeded to gather every single extension cord in the house.

Our mower is a plug in. It’s a fucking joke. I never knew such a thing could exist. Eventually, I turned it on.

With the Rosé flowing through my veins I felt strong. It was hard, but it was honest. I decided to keep going (so like a BJ). I weeded and raked around the entire house.

Next, the backyard. I was ready. It was going well. The FB status update about my current activity was killing it.

Annabel, the FB community is behind you. Plus, the old Greek man said you made hard labour look good. Don’t stop…weeds are your bitch.

In a split second it all went to absolute shit. My greatest fear, other than shitting myself to death on the porcelain throne, happened. The thing that terrifies me about our mower is the idea of running over the cord. I’m really conscious of it and usually wrap it around me so its not dragging on the ground.

Unfortunately, while focusing on the cords, I ran over a rock (it was possibly dried dog shit) It kind of shot me in the face. I jumped a bit and immediately witnessed my $7 reject shop extension cord get sucked under the blade.

What took 2 seconds, felt like an eternity. I thought I was going to die. I hadn’t shaved my legs, was wearing no underwear and ugly shorts and I thought I was about to die. Death why you so cruel?

Luckily, the karma kicked in. Turns out the mower is as shit as I always suspected. It didn’t even have the power to cut the cord. The blade actually jammed and it just stopped itself, bloody useless.

I unwrapped myself from my electrical shackles. Decided to laugh death in the face and finished the final patch. This was followed the biggest glass of Rosé my Kmart glass could handle. No more drunk gardening.

That night I shaved, pits and legs, even moisturised. Then, I finished making a dress I figured I could be buried in if the reaper came back. 

Three days later, that fucking dress, nearly destroyed me and my grilled corn.

I’m boho chic. I’m a bloody vintage goddess. My sleeves need to convey this. The sleeves on this dress were like the sleeves of an octo-mum wizard’s vag. So big, so statement. Great idea. Maybe, not when you’re grilling corn.

The fabric on this thing is the same ingredients as Roy my giant dildo was. 100% polyester acetate, highly flammable (but oh so smooth) plastic. Just the smell of gas and I’d be more lit than the West Coast Eagles at a Beacon Lighting Centre. Like R.Kelly, I ignited.

Silver lining, my legs were smooth and I had a Mountain Goat tinnie in my other hand. Reaction time was swift. Beer put flames out. Corn was delicious. Never cook sober again.

After many, many ‘I’m not dead’ beers, some celebratory tequila with splits and my famous Iago the Parrot from Aladdin impersonations. I should’ve woken up feeling like death. Not an ounce of hangover. I had cheated death yet again…

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I Did That Thing…



“If you do not tell the truth about yourself, you cannot tell it about other people.” 

― Virginia Woolf

I did that thing. That thing I’m annoyed at myself for doing every time I write a blog post.

I wasn’t honest with myself or anyone else. I lied. I pretended to be that funny, desperate, drunk chick. The one that complains how fat she is even though I think I’m beautiful.

I say how I think I’ve fucked up my life because I never became anything. Even though I know I’m really smart and can literally be what ever I want to be. If thats a girl that cooks in a cafe a few days a week and then reads, writes, plays with plastic horses and gets to go to Savers on Thursdays (thats when the good shit gets in) thats fine. Im so happy. I don’t care.

The really shit thing I did. Was date someone I didn’t love. I loved the idea of. I loved telling the story of us. How our dates were always so fun. How we spent every moment together. He couldn’t get enough of me. I wanted to go to Europe but no. We could meet at LAX airport and then go on a crazy adventure. I sat at skate parks and hated life. Have a Hollywood goodbye. I felt better every time one of us left. Then the wait by the phone at home. Bull shit, I turned my phone off vibrate.

I had some fun times. That’s all they were. Unfortunately they came with an intense serve of insecure man. They usually involved alcohol or sex, because, usually we had nothing to talk about. 

I stopped reading, writing, going to fancy movies, I didn’t sew, or swim or do any of the things I need to do for myself. We had great sex because thats all we had in common. Even that can get boring after a while.
So often I could hear my brain saying ‘What are you doing Annabel?’ but I ignored it. Because I liked to finally be that fun couple not the funny single girl. 

When we became the ‘Fun Long Distance Couple’ I felt so much relief. I knew in my mind I said goodbye for good. But, I felt guilty. Soon I felt exhausted. I was taking on the emotional baggage of an extremely needy person. I wanted to get rid of him but was so worried about hurting him and having to deal with the general public. When you care about what other people think, you know you’re screwed.

It became so obvious the pro skating, Aaron Eckhart cook was not what I wanted. Firstly, he over seasoned everything. Secondly, Aaron Eckhart is 46 and looks younger. So needy and possessive its the definition of guilt. 

Now, comes the really shit part. While I’m dealing with this tremendous burden of not really loving the actual person. I decide to write another dishonest post about how much I do love him. Bloody click bait mate. 

My glowing review of Lady in Red sung by an American that made me cry. Lies, I cried because I didn’t want to have to think about him. Coincidentally, it sparked up a few tears from a guilty chica in Colombia. She messaged that blog. 

I don’t really need to say more about him. I’m not angry. I felt relieved. I got out. The only anger I feel is at myself. Annabel, You’re so much better than him. You deserve so much more.

Honesty and respect. You need it for yourselves and you need it for others. Don’t fuck people around. Don’t cheat on a girl with a successful blog.


P.S My Bolognese is so much better.

Beauty, black comedy, Book review, Comedy, creative, Dating, Death, diet and lifestyle, Food, Home Interiors, Humour, Lifestyle, Love, Music, Philosophy, Writing

The Drought…


“The Heart is a lonely hunter with only one desire. To find some lasting comfort in the arms of anothers fire…”  ― Carson McCullers, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter  

If anyone ever says they don’t mind being in a long distance relationship. They are either cheating or full of shit. Punch them in the dick or vagina. It sucks balls. Coincidentally, thats what I think about doing most of the time. 

I don’t even have it that bad. It will be less than 6 months. That’s like one battery change. I’m basically half way. Plus I had a five week binge on Brisket at the intermittence. Still though, seriously, so fucking shit. It’s not just the fact that I’m no longer getting my daily serve of Vitamin D. After the great drought of 2015  (a couple of nibbles on a shit dolmades that tasted like regret, one revisit to a bad idea, and one possible legit retard) The HuHu can survive that. 

It’s something else. It’s the brain. nothing silences that beast. Hours of pornhub. Minutes of me cursing the fact I got AAA not AA batteries. Hours of waking up to ‘Hey babe are you awakes?’ then me saying ‘Yes’ when I’m really not because its 3am. A few minutes of me thinking should I just not do this? (shaving of legs, photos of butt and long distance) Hours of me being angry and annoyed (batteries again, arms not being long enough for butt shots and Brisket for not just coming home already), then the 15 minutes before sleep and 25 minutes waking from sleep, when all I can think about is dick. 

Thinking about it, I love my life. Even without hot dates. I have a great group of friends, I have The Rose (she’s a wife/friend hybrid) I have lovely family, I have a great home, I have a 3cm tall plastic pony that I seem to love too much, I have Psarakos, Savers, high quality beer at low prices, a local bar that knows my ‘usual’ depending on the weather and I even have other people’s dogs to love.  

Basically, I don’t really need anyone or anything else. Why are you wasting your time Annabel?. I was almost starting to convince myself. 

Then on Wednesday the 16th of November at 9:47 pm. A moment made me realise that while I didn’t need anyone else in my life. I was lucky to have one more, who just happens to look like Aaron Eckahart. Even if it is via Skype. 

Despite, the fact I had been listening to nothing but Leonard Cohen since the 11th, and had been reading The Bell Jar that same week. None of that made me cry. 

It was a moment waiting for a train. I decided to shuffle all my music and read an article about Jackie Chan’s Oscar win. Lady in Red came one. Chris DeBurgh’s finest. It was a song that I had based my year 11 dance dress on, and, weirdly quite a few men had sung to me. Usually, I cringed a bit.

Then, Brisket decided to sing it to me on our first date. I was wearing a red dress  (The Rose’s recommendation) When he did it. It was bloody adorable. I immediately started to cry (present day, not on our first date) 

Not like a few little drops either. I’m talking Claire Danes ugly cry. I didn’t stop until I was home 30 mins later, eating cheese. 

So emosh…

Cheese, like Brisket, makes most things better. You better not fucking leave me too cheese.



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Becoming Frida…


“Art begins . . . when someone interprets, when someone sees the world through his own eyes. Art happens when what is seen becomes mixed with the inside of the person who is seeing it.” 

― Chaim Potok, The Gift of Asher Lev

Two ladies I’ve always loved. Patti Smith and Frida Kahlo. At this point Salma Hayek’s magnificent tits should also be mentioned.

Patti’s new book M Train was an obvious choice for holiday reading material. It’s a collection of short essays.

 My favourite was about her visiting Casa Azul. Frida’s house in Mexico City. Basically, Patti wanted to see it. Before arriving, she ate a dodgey taco and shit the hotel bed. When Patti shits herself it sounds much more poetic. Later, after shit storm, she did get there by bus (so Patti). She passed out in Diego’s day bed, managed not to shit it. It all sounded like a dream. I googled.

When Brisket and I decided to visit Mexico City. Casa, was obvs on my list. Of course, Mexico, being Mexico. The airport would be the challenge.

I decided the smart thing to do was bring no luggage. I had a backpack stuffed with underwear and a hairbrush, so Patti.

This was all going well until security check. Apparently, you can take live chickens on the plane, but, tweezers no. They joined my old 12 inch, from last time, in the bin. As did a razor (expected) and shampoo and conditioner (they were 100 ml fuck you)

Whatever, I thought, I’ll be fine. 1 hour later, my brows were having lunch together. My legs were so frenchy so chic. My hair was greasy and flat. I tied it up, it naturally parted in the middle. The transformation had begun.

Within about 15 seconds of landing. I regretted not wearing long, loose-fitting clothes. The men are fucking perverts. I immediately went and changed. Brisket’s bright red flanno distracting from my ever prominent arse bulge.

Other than my poor personal hygiene and the perverts. Mexico city was amazing. After two days we went out of town and visited ancient pyramids. Again, amazing. We climbed them. After this my legs were basically dead. I developed a limp.

Day 4, Coyocan. The old town where Frida and Diego shacked up. We arrived, lined up, finally entered. It was fucking glorious. Go!

When in Frida’s day bed room. I caught a glimpse of myself in her portrait mirror. Monobrow, flat hair tied back. Bright, loose-fitting clothing to distract from figure. (Frida did the same to cover her injuries) The limp, in my case pyramids. In Frida’s case polio and a bus accident (poor bitch). I had become her. Sadly, no Salma tits.

I immediately prayed to Jesus, Allah, Buddah and the Virgin Mary above my bed that I kept having sex in front of. Please, don’t let Brisket become Diego. Thankfully, I never shit myself.