It’s our fault. We screwed it up from the start. We gave a word the wrong meaning. The dudes from Collins got it wrong. The peeps behind Merriam Webster missed the memo. Even the guys from Macmillan stuffed it up.

It’s probably no coincidence that the average urban commute time AND the average podcast duration both sit around the 40 minute mark. (That’s almost one million minutes over the span of a 44 year career.) Recently, rather than spending this pretty substantial chunk of time mindlessly scrolling through our teenage crush’s fiancé’s sister’s dog’s IG […]

In July last year, I threw the ultimate uppercut to city life. I packed my bags (and by bags, I mean 56 boxes and 2 truckloads of belongings and plants. Mostly plants) and moved my life and my little family, to Coledale. A sweet little suburb just an hour and a bit south of the Sydney chaos tucked in behind the national park.

I swear ten seconds ago it was New Year’s Eve. A night of pizza and beer, hopes and dreams. Just like the other 7 billion people on earth, 2017 was going to be my best year yet. Then I glanced at my computer, answered a couple of emails, looked up, and it’s December already.

You know it’s summer when your car smells like a fusion of coconut sunscreen and off mango skins that perish below your seat. The mozzies make you realise for the fifth year in a row that your fly screens still need fixing, and almost every time you look down you’ve got an alcoholic drink of some kind in your hand – who put that there?

Branding can be a labyrinth to figure out, especially when you’re fairly green in the game. Logos, taglines, marketing plans, strategies, social media — there’s a tonne of stuff to navigate, and a set of rules that typically apply to go along with it. Rules are a general given in life; Don’t cross until the little green man is showing.

You won’t find the answer to life’s big questions online (nor, as previously imagined, inside a delectable fortune cookie). So from where do we derive value? Is it as simply as the nature versus nurture discussion? Are we conditioned to value what those before us have valued?

If you’ve ever opened a beehive, you know why the saying ‘busy as a bee’ has lasted the test of time. Those buzzing little things quite literally don’t stop, won’t stop, can’t stop. Until they sting you of course, then the little buggers get karma and kick the bucket. RIP, stripey friend.

This morning, as I waited for my daily caffeine fix at my local cafe, I met a wonderful woman with bright eyes, vivid white teeth and that insanely curly hair that makes you wonder if human DNA could have been infused with strands of Maggie Noodles at some point in history.

The first time I listened to Survivor by Destiny’s Child, I was red-cordial high. It was at my year 6 Summer Disco and I was an awkwardly lanky 12 year old spinning out on sugar and the excitement of twirling round a school hall ‘rocking’ the dancefloor.

I don’t claim to be an expert on many topics, but I have learned a couple of things in my 27 cycles around the earth. And the chief pearl of wisdom that I’d like to leave as a legacy and pass on to generations to come is this: never share your email address with Alibaba.

Last Sunday eve I joined the masses of people on their weekly pilgrimage to scour the aisles of capitalism and stock their pantries in an attempt to both prevent starvation and summon euphoria in the shape of a colourful fridge. What should have been a menial task felt more like a scene from Hunger Games, but that’s not the point.

Let’s just say you’re driving the car. And listening to the news while eating a dirty kebab, talking to your mum over loud speaker while planning your wedding inside your head. Simultaneously wondering whether old Aunt Mae would mind being seated next to your hill-billy-pot-smoking cousin, Dave. Pretty amazing right?

I can safely say that my team would rather have their teeth ripped from their mouths with a rusty knife much sooner than they would allow me to sit them in grey cubicles wearing stiff corporate attire on crazy deadlines with a strict no-laughing policy.

Putting two-day-old underwear on, inside out. Leaving the house with feta in your eyebrows and lipstick on your teeth. Spending your days with twelve too many empty coffee cups on your desk. Eating melted gelato and your kid’s teething stick you found on the floor for lunch at a quarter past four. Spending the entire week squeezing mayonnaise onto your toothbrush and trying to start your car with your leftover toast.

I like wine. Like, a lot. The guy at the bottle-o up the road is a sweet man, but he doesn’t understand me. Every time I go in there I grab the exact same bottle of Argentinian Malbec. Every time, he tries to sell me something new. Every. Time. He says, “Oh we’ve got this new Malbec in, you really must give it a go” and then he bangs on about fruity aromas, long legs, cherry notes and hints of burnt toast.