D is for Discontinuation

The grand plan was to finish the “a-z of me” series on this blog. D was going to be for Disney, and I was going to write about how I grew up on Princesses and bursting into spontaneous song, but after many-a-month of not blogging I realised following through on things is not a strength of mine, and maybe D needs to be about my inability to keep the ball rolling.

While I haven’t been doing things I’ve had a lot of time to think about what makes me flake out so much. People like people who are agreeable.  I like it when people like me.  Consequently, I say yes a lot when I mean to say no.  This oddly has the exact opposite outcome to the desired effect.  Nobody looks back and thinks “hmmm, Sam says yes to lots of things. I like that!” It’s more “Sam doesn’t do what she says she’s going to do... I like that.”

I love Robert Downey Jr.

I have a feeling that part of my problem with completing things is a case of perfectionism gone horribly wrong.  I have a massive and incredibly fragile ego, which I hide behind this charming veil of self-deprecation. It’s delightfully disarming. But behind this veil is a truth that I know that I can be better than I make myself out to be. I expect perfection from myself.

This unrealistic expectation of perfection results in me simply not attempting to do anything. You can’t fail what you don’t attempt.  Or alternatively I’ll start a project, get halfway through and realise it’s not the completed masterpiece I had in my head, so I stop. It’s easier to accept a failure if there is no final product available to be judged.

I’ve recently been telling myself to aim for progress not perfection, which is why I am going to post this blog piece. I don’t feel like this is a good entry, it’s short and disjointed. Too many sentences are starting with the word “but”. But I’ve been stuck at this place for so long and I need to move forward. On to E.

C is for Cats

When I was 7 Batman Returns came out, and I fell in love with Michelle Pfeiffer.  I thought she was just the ant’s pants and the bee’s pants and the cat’s pyjamas – I wrote her a letter with drawings and everything! Her portrayal as Catwoman was magnificent.  Sure, being 7 I didn’t understand her character at all; I just knew she was pretty, had an affinity with cats and took no nonsense from people who were mean. So, in the sincerest form of flattery I could muster, I became a Weird Cat Child.

Most people know the Crazy Cat Lady, she’s the emotional spinster who has too many cats instead of a family. (We joke about this serious condition all too lightly.) Well, the Weird Cat Child is very similar, but instead of having cats she becomes the cats! I was that kid who used to lick the back of my hand and run it through my hair (or fur, as I preferred it to be called). I used to meow and purr and pretend I was super interested in yarn. I was weird.

Me and my first love

One day my friend’s cat accidentally had kittens, so my parents caved in and we got to keep one! Her name was Lucy and I loved her. It wasn't to last though – she broke my heart by running away. I was devastated. After a week of searching 3 doors up and 3 doors down from our house (Cat Children are territorial and respect boundaries in the forms of roads and footpaths) I vowed I would never love another cat again.

Fast forward: The year was 2013, it was a week before Christmas and our hero Sam had once again primed herself for a ride on the heartbreak express. 

For a few months I had been casually browsing the RSPCA website, looking for a new cat to give a ‘forever home’ to. I knew dad wasn’t too keen on the idea, but that didn’t stop me dreaming. Unfortunately I let my dreams get too big one afternoon when I found myself actually at the RSPCA holding the most effing adorable cat you have ever seen in your life.

She actually stuck her tongue out when she was happy! Tell me that is not the cutest thing you have seen in your life! I adored this cat!

So happy :P!!!

Dad didn’t though. I sent photos, I begged, I made promises regarding feeding and litter changing all in vain.  In that fleeting portion of an afternoon that the cat and I had spent together something had changed in me.  I knew I could love a cat again. One day I will love a cat again. I know deep in my heart that I am destined to own a cat.

Didn’t stop me crying for the next 3 days though.


This post is about the time I didn’t buy a cat.  Turns out you really can blog about anything.

B is for Baggage

The older we get the more baggage we carry around with us.

This post is an exclusive exposé of what I carry around with me.

Exhibit A: The Exterior 

Pretty in Pink

This bag seems like it’s keeping it all together. It is fun, it’s lively, it has a hint of danger in the studding, but nothing that would immediately tip off that the contents are a jumbled mess of stuff and junk.

Exhibit B: The Lifelines 

Call me maybe?  Or Sam... Sam works too

These are what keep me connected with the world. First we have my wallet, which can be used to either conceal or reveal my identity. Then we have my phone which I use to store a database of my contacts; and play Sudoku on.

Exhibit C: The Decoy 

Pretty in Salmon

I bought this the other weekend and haven’t swapped my ID over to it yet.

Exhibit D: Bags 

The bags in my bags come in bags

Yes, my baggage has baggage! Blame the ACT for that one!

Exhibit E: Too many pens 

Maybe I should be a professional autographer

Do you need a pen? Do you need 8 pens? If I were an octopus this amount of ink would be appropriate.

Exhibit F: Prettifying things 

I have yet another BB cream in my wardrobe...

I have 2 BB creams because no one should look like how they really look like.

Exhibit G: The Unclassifieds 

I've already eaten one of these things...

Some things I haven’t made a category for. They just float around and show up when not expected.

Exhibit H: The Escape 

Mais où est la key de l'heart?

I don’t condone throwing rocks at people, not matter how many times I read my key-ring. I carry bad advice with me – key-rings really are made to be rung.

Closing Statement
Bags, bags, bags – they're very useful things.  If we didn't have bags what would we use to put a lot of things in?

A is for Antidisestablishmentarianism

I'm starting a new blog series - the A-Z of me! I figure it's a good push for me to write, even if some topics aren't going to be that well thought out. 

So, without further ado... Antidisestablishmentarianism – the opposition to the belief that there should no longer be an official church in a country.

Through my life I’ve contemplated the existence of a God. As I stand right now I lean towards agnostic theism.  I think there is something bigger than myself, but I don’t know how or why I believe that.

My upbringing wasn't particularly religious, my parents believed in letting me come to a religious decision myself. But just in case I didn't come to a decision, I was christened when I was 1 year old. I have 3 God Parents. This hasn't had any effect on my life. To those parents out there contemplating infant baptism - it can't hurt. At best you've saved your child from eternal damnation, at worst you got them a little wet.

I was damned minutes before this photo was taken

My primary school had Easter and Christmas activities which were pretty fun, but I was always confused when some children were taken out of the class during those weeks. I was told that their parents didn’t want them knowing about God, which didn't make sense at the time.  It planted that seed saying “perhaps there isn’t…” I mean, it turned out Santa wasn’t real, who’s to say God wasn’t related. Why else would their parents not want them to participate?

So I got skeptical. In high school I joined the Inter-School Christian Fellowship (ISCF) specifically to challenge the other Christian students and ask obnoxious questions like “if God is all-knowing, why does he test us knowing we’ll fail?” and “do dinosaurs go to heaven?” Disappointingly I was informed that dinosaurs do not go to heaven... because they never existed! 2 blows in 1 day! Thanks ISCF! 

It's all coming up dinosaur!

When I was 17 I started going to the Canberra Chinese Christian Church with my friend Emily. I don’t know if she realised I’m not Chinese… actually, it seemed like no one there noticed – and I felt really accepted.  It was wonderful.  I felt my heart swell with warmth and love and I decided that that feeling was God. I had made the decision that I was a Christian!

Having this conviction was empowering!  I was haughty about it too, with this uppity “I’m better than you peasants because I’m a believer”.  I judged people harshly because they weren't as enlightened - that was until I dated a Catholic boy.  I don’t have a problem with Catholicism, but his family looked down on me because I had the wrong version of the same belief. My haughtiness had the stool kicked from beneath it. I was crushed by someone doing the exact same thing I was guilty of.

It was humiliating, to think that I had treated others with this same contempt, simply for having a belief that was different to mine.  I decided Christianity didn’t suit me, and I gave up on God.

So I spent most of my 20s being very nihilistic. Nihilism has suited me, but as I'm approaching my 30s I’m wanting a bit more from my life.  I’m searching for meaning again.

I don’t believe in God as such, but I do believe there is purpose in our existence. I think things happen at certain times for certain reasons.  We’re here to improve and enlighten ourselves. The universe is beautiful and it’s a marvel to be a part of it.  Life is essentially beautiful. 

I specifically am the universe

In terms of being antidisestablishmentarian, as long as there is a separation of the church and the state it doesn’t really bother me if there is an official church or not.  As long as the people of a country are free to believe in what they want, however they want as long as it doesn’t hurt other people, it’s not really that much of a concern. Live and let live.

Today's post was brought to you by the letter M, and the number 3.14

Unsolicited opinions

Bridges are the best part of songs.

Bridges are the worst part of footpaths.

Michelle Bridges has a cool last name.

Michelle Footpaths has an unfortunate last name.

Anyone with their name starting with an “A” should sign their names with that “star” A people do.

People with the letter “i” in their name should dot it with a love heart.

This is my new signature.

S*m*nth* w<3ll<3*ms

Australian accents in songs sound wonderful.

Australian accents at Sydney airport when you’ve just got home from traveling overseas sound ridiculous.

This is most definitely an “inside” headband.

This is what happens when you won't let me have a cat!

That pose is a “don’t put that on the inter… you just did, didn’t you?!” pose.

Shake up time…

Happy 2014 fellow human beings!  I hope this year brings you lots of joy and fulfillment.  I’ve set my intentions:

1. To work on my health, spirituality, and to grow up.
2. To stop hiding from the world – to get out there and embrace who Samantha Williams is.
3. To forgive and let go. 

Have you set any intentions for the year?
... My goodness, this blog just broke the fourth wall! Things are getting hectic over here!!!

In my opinion, this is the last sentence of this blog post.

In reality it wasn’t.

That's the spirit

When I was, I dunno, 10 years old, my brother and I made a Ouija board from the back of a 'twister' spinner board and the lid of an Aloe V bottle. We used to spend hours asking ghosts and spirits questions like “what’s your name?” and “how old are you?”. There we had the potential for having questions about metaphysics or existentialism answered, and we wanted to know if they were also 10. Go figure.   

The last time I wrote here was in March, when one might say I wasn’t in a great place.  I sorta rolled with this not great head-space and was a little bit actively internally destructive.  I don’t think it's necessarily bad though.  It has been dark, but I now have faith that this is the beginning of something bright. Kinda like how the Tower works. I think it was important to tear down my old structures in order to rebuild on a sturdier foundation. 

I have this new-found openness to the universe, and with that I’ve been liking some pretty ridiculous things on Facebook regarding positivity and happiness.  

“Life is not happening to you; life is responding to you!”

“Life is like a camera… just take another shot!”

Or this one I made myself:

Let's hold hearts!

(Don’t let me become a professional inspiration writer; the world parodies itself enough as it is!)

So, opening myself up to my spiritual journey, last week I decided to do something a bit different and went and saw a Spiritual Healer.  I quite liked her.  I went in and was like “I think I got some past life Karma that I haven’t worked through” and she was receptive to that. Not many people would be able to hear that sentence without bursting out laughing - I almost couldn’t say it without laughing, but she was totally cool with it; she was like “sure, we’ll go check that out”.

So she lay me down on this table and put on some music and got me to close my eyes.  I had weird visions things flowing through my head, lots of swirling patterns.  Like how colouring dye flows into water. And then lots of sudden sharp imagery, like arrows and those guns with pointy thingies. I want to say bayonette but I think that’s a type of window. (wait, that’s a bay window… bayonette is correct! Ten points to Griffindor!)

Anyway, after this weird nap thing I took she told me that there is something there, and it was quite traumatic.  So apparently, I was very young and got married off to some jerk.  He was quite the jerk so I stabbed him in the heart, and my servant took the blame.  I felt super guilty about that so I killed myself, and then I carried that guilt with me into this life.  So we cut the cords connecting me to that life and now I can live free and never have to worry about the fact that I murdered my husband again.  Phew, I can move on now! 

(That said, I actually did have a bit of a cry.  A maniacal laughing cry, if you know what I’m saying.  It was… I dunno… both absurd and cathartic?  Such a bizarre experience... 10/10 would do it again!)

She also told me that Archangel Michael is with me and looking over me.  This I’m a bit more skeptical about (more skeptical than me carrying past life guilt about killing my husband – this is something I can really buy into!) I kinda feel like if I’m gonna have an angel watching me, it’ll be one of them trainee angels.  Like regular angel Jeff.  He’s a bit dowdy and klutzy, but he has a good heart! Together we’ll make it, Jeff!

That’s enough.  I’m alive, and I’ll be back writing here again soon :).

Depressionista

Sorry I haven't posted anything for a while... I haven't felt much motivated to do much.

I can't really remember much from the last 3 weeks.  This depression is turning everything into a blur. Each day is a battle for survival, you know?  Nothing notable is happening; no real crashes, and no real breakthroughs.  It's okay sometimes and really difficult mostly.

I accidentally fell off the spectrum

Some days are bearable, mostly the ones where I'm too hungover to remember why I don't want to live.The other days are a struggle.  I much prefer the pain of a hangover than the pain of what is my reality.  

What I hate is that it hurts the people around me.  I hate that I can't face talking to anyone.  I don't check my Facebook, I don't respond to texts. I feel too ashamed to even go home and see my parents. Everyone has advice and I know everyone's advice is good and in my best interests... but I'm not in for my best interests.

It's really hard to explain; and to be honest, I don't want this to be one of those whiney woe-is-me blogs.  I've learnt through bitter experience that it's important to keep some personal things off the internet - crippling mental illness is one of those things. Unless it's retrospectively, like "Hey, wasn't that time I nearly drowned in melancholy hilarious? How self deprecatingly humorous of me!"

So this is my attempt to say sorry, and that I don't think I'll be back until I can write something that doesn't call for a CAT team or institutionalisation.

I'll get there in the end.  Just determining where 'there' is and when the end will be.

The disappointment is the hardest bit.

Music is the best!

Me rocking out in 1988

I love music. I remember being 4 and sitting on the floor of our lounge room with these oversized 80’s headphones listening to records. I remember I was 4, because the record I had was called 4. It was produced for us 4 year olds. Us 4 year olds love things that are related to being 4 years old. Like, I would use 4 to count things down. "1, 2, 3, 4, go!"

Still one of my all time favourite albums!

I also loved listening to the Beatles records. My parents were (are?) big Beatles fans. My dad is Liverpuddle-ian, so maybe it’s in homage to that. Or maybe it’s because the Beatles freakin’ rock.

For my 13th birthday one of my friends gave me a CD gift voucher for my birthday, probably with the notion that I get something cool like the spice girls or backstreet boys. Yep. I bought an ABBA CD. My friend was mighty horrified.

To this day I still absolutely love ABBA. They take me back to my early teens, to a place where my thoughts aren’t and I can get to where my feelings are. People say that ABBA is bubblegum pop, but I don’t get that. There’s something haunting about Agnetha’s voice, and there’s an underlying sadness in the melodies that stir up that same sadness I have inside.


"I just have a lot of feelings"

I think that’s why I love music. Music talks to my feelings, places that I can’t access on my own. I know I’m incredibly emotional; I cry a lot, I laugh a lot, I sing too often... but I find it difficult to connect to my feelings. I get frustrated with myself because I get stuck in my head; I want to understand why I react the way I do.

With music I can step away from these judgemental thoughts and just use my senses to experience the world, rather than telling myself this is how I’m “supposed” to be.  I’m allowed to cry during a song because it’s moving; crying for no reason is just weird.  Music has the capacity to make me feel anything. Happy, sad, anxious, energetic, quixotic, Kafkaesque. Music is absolutely incredible!

So one of my pet hates is when people say “I’m into every kind of music – except genre x”. Genre x is usually either country music, or “heavy metal” (just wait until I introduce them to black metal!)

All genre’s have their purpose.  Sure, some country music is terrible; just like some pop is terrible, or some classical is really boring.  But every single genre I’ve ever listened to has its gems.  Why write off an entire genre because you heard one song that you didn’t enjoy?  One is a ridiculously tiny sample size. You expect to make inferences for an entire population from one thing?  You're not a scientist at all!

Then again, I shouldn't judge.  I know I subscribe to black and white thinking.  (I'm the worst!)

... Music is the best!

50 shades of fan fiction

So far “le Janvier” is going well. I sliced off some of my tooth while flossing– that’s the last time I improvise with razor-wire! I actually freaked out quite a bit, who slices off a tooth? So I went to the dentist for a filling, and it turned out I just took off the edge of a tooth which was holding in a previous filling. So we numbed me up and put in a new filling. In the following hours I realised that because I had no feeling in my mouth I managed to chew up the whole left side of my cheek innards. You would think after 27 years I would know where my cheek is, but no. Luckily I had Mum around who stuffed my mouth full of cotton wool. I doubt I’ll ever not need my Mum.

I’ve been trying to slug through the last Fifty Shades of Grey book. I find it really hard to read; mostly because it’s so terrible. When I first bought the trilogy I was pretty excited, “Finally! Erotic literature tailored for Mommys, I thought this day would not come!” But it has nothing to do with fantasising you’re a mother who’s reading pornography. Its reputation is very misleading! 

I can handle the bad grammar, the molestation of a thesaurus, and the switching up of past and present tenses; but I find it difficult to ignore Ana’s Subconscious and Inner Goddess. I don’t know about you but my subconscious is below my conscious level of perception. While hers is reading “the complete works of Charles Dickens Volume One” (no specific titles necessary, neither the reader nor author have read any Dickens anyway!) my subconscious is off processing some childhood trauma or something. I’m not certain of that though; I have no idea what goes on in there – it is sub consciousness. The subconscious is like a warehouse of experiences our conscious minds don’t understand. I imagine it to be like a processing factory out in the woods, ready to deliver the pieces of information if the consciousness requires it. It doesn’t tut, have spectacles, or read fancy English books.

When I see the words “Inner Goddess,” I read it as “please skip to the next paragraph.” The metaphors don’t make any sense.  “My inner goddess is doing a triple axel dismount off the uneven bars.”  I don’t know what that is supposed to mean!  She feels so sexy she imagines she’s a gymnast? That sounds more stressful than erotic.  I also imagine her inner goddess being like Animated Lizzie from Lizzie McGuire, which makes her even more ridiculous.



The thing that bothers me most is that E.L. James doesn’t understand her characters, and is highly judgemental about "alternative lifestyles". The blatant emotional abuse issue seems to be ignored, but then the fact that Edward Christian is a little kinky is frowned upon. Ana clearly finds it hot, but after the sex is over she’s all “Holy shit bananas that was amazing, but there must be something wrong with him, even though I consented to it all and really enjoyed it too. Time to psychoanalyse and cure him! Because love is about curing people’s faults; faults which I both condemn and encourage.”

Can’t he just be a sadistic pervert and leave it at that? To each their own.

Plus his back story is lame and lazy. I would be much more satisfied with “he’s got Scorpio rising with Pluto in the 1st house”. Leave it there, it’s sexier.

But no; we have to figure out the hunky mysterious man, stripping him of his hunky mysteriousness. Mystery is sexy, mother-issues... less sexy.

Christian stalks Ana, which also isn’t sexy, or acceptable. If he is supposed to be this confident dreamy guy then I would think it would be out of character for him to be obsessing over her. Confidence is sexy, jealousy and trust issues aren’t. The stalking and jealousy thing comes across as wimpy, and as soon as he started doing that I just got annoyed with him, and certainly didn’t want to be having fantasy dommy/subby sex with him.

I love you like a friend, wimpy cartoon guy!

Ana annoys me too. Saying you’re smart and read old English literature is not the same as actually being smart and able to use words correctly. Not using plain English makes her come across as a dumbass. Sure, the words sound impressive when not in the context of your sentence; but they are, and their meaning isn’t what you think it is. You sound like a wanker, dear. I can empathise with Christian – I’d wanna smack her too.

Beh. The characters deserve each other really.

Here’s a review which sums it up well. It has GIFs!  Possibly NSFW, depending on where you work.

This video also makes me laugh: It has Selena Gomez.

In conclusion, read it if you want a laugh from reading the numerous parodies and reviews, but not for sexual stimulation.  There are much better written erotic novels out there.  Hell, there is a lot better fan fiction out there, with even better shipping than Bedward! 

"I heart you Doctor Tennant!"
"Actually if you don't mind it's just the Doctor..."

Room sniffing

Happy New Year friends! I hope everyone’s pumped for 2013.I find the first week of a new year is my favourite; It’s hot, there’s no work, and I haven’t failed my resolutions yet. This year I resolute(?) to write at least 12 posts again. It’s not an inspired resolution, but I’m so chillaxed right now that I’m using the word “chillaxed” without quotations.

Today I went into what was my Nana’s room in the last months of her life. I miss my Nana, and complain of it often to anyone who’ll listen. Her scent is still in the room; her things and her smell. I feel sad knowing that each time I sneak in there to steal a sniff of her I’m losing the potency by diluting her scent with fresh Sam, but time will also steal that. I can beat time if I use the power of the present (I’m on to you… time; if that is even your real function!)

I suspect Mum’s the same. It’s been almost 2 years since Nana died, and the room is unchanged. A closed off room we pass every day but don’t enter. It’s there and it’s not there. The Schrodinger’s cat of Canberra; though when you do open it she’s still alive, in a way – Unfortunately not in a literal way; in more a “her memory will live on…” sort of way. So it’s not really a Schrodinger’s cat at all…

There’s this idea that we have three deaths. The first is our physical death, when our body dies. The second is when we are consigned to the grave, and the third death is when our name is spoken for the last time.

I suppose it’s fortunate that I have a super common name. :P

Anyway, while trying to acquire some olfactory nostalgia in my Nana’s old room, I came across some postcards sent to Nana from my Mum when we went overseas when I was very young. I saw them and thought, “I better not look, it’s addressed to Nana,” but then I thought, “it’s a postcard, if the postman is allowed to read this then there is no reason I shouldn’t be allowed to too!”

My ego was expecting such sentiments as “Samantha is a delight; she is by far the finest daughter one could ask for,” and, “children are the greatest joy of one’s life!” Nope. “The kids are tired and fighting,” and, “this is hard,” were the more the idea. I felt a bit sorry for my mum (and my ego).

Then I realised, Nana wasn’t just my rock; she was my Mum’s rock too. In fact, Mum was there first so she might've even had more of a claim on Nana than I did. Though Nana wasn’t Mum’s Nana, she was Mum’s Mum, and I know what a powerful relationship Mothers and their daughters can have. Since losing Nana, Mum and I have found rocks in each other. (We should probably get that checked out…)

It’s funny that all of those years I went down to my Nana’s house to complain about my Mum; Mum was doing the same thing about me. To be fair, I was a shit teenager. In fact, I used to go to my Nana to complain about myself as well.

Anyway, point is that Mum and I are cool with each other now. Our parent/child relationship was testing at times, but we’ve come to an understanding about each other and both really appreciate one another as adults. Or at least, I know I really appreciate her. My Mum makes a really great friend; I’m blessed to have her. I just hope she doesn’t mind that I have a room sniffing habit.

Mum, your daughter is weird! (This message also applies to Dad.)