Prove to me that you're hardcore, show me your ink.

Gone are the days when just prisoners and society's drop-outs desecrate their bodies with symbolic representations of their killings or gang-related misdemeanour's. These days it's become socially acceptable, even expected, to coat yourself in an ink disguise. Without a tattoo you are considered a jock outcast- forever exiled to the realms of decency and dweebness. You are considered a sissy, an over-achiever, a wife-beater-consuming coke-sniffing pop-music-loving commercial junkie.

Mothers nationwide frown upon new piercings, tattoos, haircuts that inspire images of awkward poodle shavings. They forget that time breeds change. As the decades have swum passed trends have developed, broken, sustained and switched into new categories of existence. What was once considered as a badge for the screw-ups has now evolved into a broach for the trendy. We wear our ink proudly, showing it off with a pompous confidence that proves our alternative coolness, our separation from the over-crowded commercial society we dwell in.

Problem is, in trying so hard to be quirky and alternative, we've spread our influence, taking over the top spot in the race for majority acceptance. We no longer hold the minority, we seep into conventional society, declaring our difference all the while dominating the populace. Despite the irony of this situation, we remain a proud gaggle of human existence. We continue to inject ink into our skin, we pierce and stretch any appendage that can be located by a plastic glove-wearing sadist. We strut like peacocks, flashing our decorations like Christmas trees, glittering like proud glow worms.

I knock our separatism, yet still sign up for it every time I add to the growing list of baubles that adorn my body. I like it, we all do, that's why we partake. We give ourselves a sense of tribal recognition; connecting through sight with others of our kind, nodding in the direction of one we respect, sending our mutual condolences to those, like ourselves, who are outcasts. ([sic] all irony.) We “creative types” with our “alternative ways” and “trendy traits” will undoubtedly become a generation of child-rearing awkward misfits who were once cool, yet now are left with daily momentos of the folly of our youth.

None of us are likely to ever don a suit, we choose careers that allow for individualism, fearing the future and what our adornments will mean for it. Bring on times and their changes, I vow to retain my difference, to be an ageing hippy, to defend my tattoos to the end.

Metrosexual tables have turned

The ethereal fairy-like beauty next to me opens her mouth and lets out a burp that'd make windows shatter. It echoes throughout the quad-like rooftop of college, bouncing off the walls, vibrations moving the very concrete we sit on. She muses silently for a while before querying “Do you ever feel like the person you are in your head is not the person everyone sees you as?” Two of us stare at her, surprised, yet in awe of her vocal projection and honesty.

I'm attacked daily for my chipped nail-polish, my vulgarity, my mercenary-like swearing, even my ferociously unfeminine appetite. I have reached a conclusion though- sitting with my girls over a hurried lunch break- one burping, one picking her teeth with her nail, the other sitting legs wide and welcoming, that we are still the ladies we need to be when it's appropriate, but mostly we're all just slobs when it comes to crunch time.

Gentlemen. Never fear, most of us will keep our disgusting qualities to ourselves, you'll never have to bare witness to the profanity of true girl-speak. (shoes, shopping and hair cuts have never come into this type of conversation.) We blurt the unimaginable to each other. We discuss the coarse reality we live with. It gets nasty. We become uncivilised, repulsive even. If only I could crack open this Pandora's box of indecency and show it to the world of men. All bets are on you'd have a lot more respect for the women in your lives, you may even fear us and our boorish speak that'd outshine yours any day. Luckily, this is a feat that will no longer have to be performed- girls like me have been showing ourselves for far too long to backtrack at this stage.

Our friends have been shocked and emasculated by our talents and yet, still, we soldier on- dispelling myths everywhere of little-white-glove-wearing darlings you may think you know. Guaranteed there are a lot of girls who manage to maintain perfection, I applaud you. You wake up every morning, repaint your nails, straighten you hair, lather your face in a swamps worth of gunk, don your pretty-in-pink sweater and set off for your day of mystery-maintaining madness. I must send these girls a warning- you're on the out. We're the new metrosexuals and we're here to stay. Got to go now- i have an evening to get to and need to do my hair.

Tucking the Tackle

He lifted it. He tucked it. He moulded it back into the crevices of his tightey whities. He removed his genitaliated hand from his waistband and shook my own freshly washed one. I gagged. He was unfazed, riding on the confidence of his ultra manliness.
Consider this image; a blonde Betty-Boop sashays down the sidewalk. With all the sensuality to kill a horse she moves with the grace of a willow. She stops, unabashedly plunging her left hand, merlot nails and all, into the depths of her peel-on, peel-off jeans. After groping, grabbing and readjusting for a time she yanks her hand back into the fresh air she walks in. This tells me that it doesn't matter how attractive you are, how confident, self-assured, uncomfortable or itchy, no-one, not anyone, should fondle their own genitalia in public.

This division between the socially acceptable and the straight-up verboden ignites the question of why (oh why) do men still partake in this crude, neanderthallic practice when they would be outspokenly adverse to the idea of a woman doing the same thing. Yes, we get that when your tackle begins to tackle one another it becomes uncomfortable. We sympathise with your awful situation and daily woes. Yet empathy stretches only so far. Your practise is indecent, unhygienic, often sweat-fuelled and smelly, and just damn gross. Public bathrooms, now there's a place for you to find refuge for your aching bits.

I implore all men, boys and in-betweeners, keep your private plunders to yourself. Find a safe place, behind closed doors, blinds or fences, make the necessary adjustments, regroup with the rest of the world. Remember, it's just a hop, skip and a touch from public fondling to indecent exposure, guaranteed arrest and paedophilia charges. Refrain men, I beg of you.

Gingervitis

There is a terrorist in my neighbourhood. He stalks members of my family, prowls the perimeters of my house and, when emboldened, will find his way into my lounge to pick a violent, bloody brawl with my eldest child. His name is Nibbles.
Nibbles is a ginger savage who didn't get enough love in his kitten-hood and feels the need to project his pain onto Harvey, my grey and white spotted fluffy ball of joy.
Harvey lives in fear of this menace, opting to spend his time hiding behind couches, in cupboards and under coffee tables to avoid an attack.
Every morning I wake to the piercing scream of my cat, only to rush bleary-eyed downstairs where i find him cornered by the maniacal tiger. I launch a 3litre jug of ice water at Nibbles, soaking him nose to tail-tip with the freezing liquid, quietly praying (as only an atheist can) that he won't be coming back again. Repeat process the following morning. Ditto the day after that.
It's been four months of feline fury that my family has had to deal with. Rushing Harvey to the vet once a week for sprained ankles, rabies shots, bandages, therapy.
My main concern is that the owner of the cat (Mrs X) feels nothing for what we go through every day. "He's an angel at home!" She exclaims, a reassurance that we are in fact bonkers and have not dealt with her beast day in and day out for far too long.
This is my question: Do I take out the whole X family or just Nibbles? They're renting for Christ sakes,they don't even belong here!
I'm not sure if I need a paint-ball gun or a bulldog, either way, I intend to "deal" with Nibbles just as soon as I can get him on his own. No-one messes with my boys and gets away with it. No-one.