Brought to you by Sian Campbell, Ella Dann-Limon and Hayley Stockall.
Review of a few days ago when I google image searched “drew Barrymore frances bean cobain” then convinced my sister* to dye my hair hot pink
by Sian Campbell
Look, I don’t know when my fascination with the Love-Cobain progeny (Can progeny be singular? Progene? Progeni?) started. It was probably around 2004, when my friend Tom started calling me “Frances Bean.” Despite his love for Nivana, this was not in actuality a compliment. The nickname was not due to any physical (despite our mutual propensity toward moon-face in our youth) or characteristic resemblance to said F-Bean, but more to do with the fact that in my perpetually sleepy, unwashed, masculine state and with my straggly blonde hair spilling out from under a tres grunge – read: feral – beanie I was reminiscent of a smaller, younger, less dead Kurt.
Naturally I’ve followed the adventures of old F-Bean on and off since. She’s hardly what I would call one of my celebrity crushes though, not by a long shot. That spot is reserved for Drew Barrymore who I realised the other night OMG SHE IS FRANCES BEAN COBAIN’S GODMOTHER?!?! HOW DID I NOT KNOW THIS WTF. So obvs I google image their names so I can find a photo of them together and take it to one of those poster places and get it printed the size of my fucking wall (still no luck, if anyone can find one please email to firstname.lastname@example.org with the subject line SIAN YOUR DREAMS HAVE COME TRUE) and then I realise that both Drew and F-Bean have at separate times rocked the pink locks, and then I don’t know what’s happening but I’m in possession of some Manic Panic and I’m in the bathroom and we have my brother* (who is a drag queen ex-hairdresser apprentice so knows his shit, duh) on speakerphone and he’s yelling DON’T DO ANYTHING UNTIL I GET HOME, JUST STOP, PLEASE, WHAT ARE YOU DOING and my sister* and I are giggling and then my hair is super-saiyan orangey yellow and then My Kitchen Rules is almost over and I whisper is it time and suddenly my head is over the sink and it’s not coming out and I realise IT IS NEVER COMING OUT, IT WILL BE PINK FOR THE REST OF MY FUCKING LIFE WHAT HAVE I DONE.
*I don’t have time to explain the complexities of my life to you Scumbags.
The time I nearly ate a lizard egg because it looked like an Allen’s mint
by Ella Dann-Limon
When bond cleaning at the start of this year, I had the arduous task of wiping down the very top shelves in our kitchen. When moving some old jars, four small, white balls rolled towards me. I immediately thought that this must be the place where those mints disappeared to, those mints I buy at university just in case someone sits next to me and tries to start a conversation only I can’t talk because I didn’t eat breakfast and even though I brushed my teeth I’m still not certain my breath is Colgate acceptable. I picked one up and went to place into my mouth, only to find that the pressure from my fingers had cracked the shell. Still not entirely sure what was up with the mint, I pressed down harder. The shell cracked open, releasing a grey liquid and a small, veiny embryo. NOPE. At this point, my body froze and I dropped the egg on the floor, smearing it into a blob. I was left screaming, standing on the kitchen bench top, staring at it. AIN’T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT. This event marked the end of my bond cleaning.
Review of eavesdropped conversations during my lunch breaks 3/3
by Hayley Stockall
Monday, 18/03/13, QUT Gardens Point, table near Origin Kebab
Three boys and three girls sit at a table in front of me. Kudos on the gender parity, but brunettes outnumber blondes 4:2. No redheads here, or in close proximity. Is their extinction rate more urgent than we have been led to believe? Note to self: check stats, and also check extinction rate of orangutans.
Topics of conversation shift rapidly. The girls are discussing fake tan, and I want to shout out “come on blondes, quit being such a cliché!” but they seem genuinely perplexed that it comes off in the shower. The boys are probably discussing football or car racing. I don’t know, I’ve got blocked ears and I tend to tune out of conversations when the speaker is wearing a tank top.
Two blonde girls approach the table, restoring the equilibrium of hair colour but subverting the gender balance. Who has this many friends at university? What is this, a university for popular people? I’m not even enrolled at this campus. Maybe this is my life’s biggest regret.
My chicken burrito is falling to pieces. My gut is telling me that perhaps Mexican was not the best choice. The girl directly in front of me asks the group whether they’d rather eat a baby or have sex with their brother, and although this is the only exciting thing I have heard thus far I am late for a meeting and must leave. But I’d like to believe that at least one blonde girl voted for the baby option.