For the first time in quite a while, I feel good. For right now, it’s not a state of mental wellbeing (although I wish it was), but I feel cleansed. Exercising and eating healthy foods are definitely a large part of it. I was once told by a good friend that we’re supposed to treat our bodies like temples and nurture them accordingly, by only allowing them to feed off of positive nutrients and only we are in control of that. True. But I like burritos and snickers a lot. Today however, I deprived myself of those two delectable items and only gave my body good things; and I’ll be honest, the outcomes are outstanding.

While this hasn’t changed anything about my state of mind at the moment, it’s almost helping me work on it more. During two rounds of exercise today, I was able to clear my mind and not think about the consuming thoughts of why a pretty boy didn’t reply to my text message (it’s sincerely heart breaking stuff, but it’s a real joy when your mind isn’t circling for answers 12 hours of the day).

I then did something a little crazy. A little something out of the ordinary. Something I always shame myself for not doing, and get angry that it’ll never occur and thus my dreams will never even be capable of coming true.
I wrote something that wasn’t a blog post. I wrote something that wasn’t a cheesy short story. And I didn’t type it on my computer.
I got out my beautiful leather bound notebook that I purchased while in Florence, something that I have written in approximately two times for a fear of making it’s insides hideous. But this time, I opened that notebook, grabbed myself a pencil and did what all the teachers have told me and just put that lead to the paper. I didn’t even think (well, I mean, I guess I was thinking at the time, but it honestly just flowed on out of me). I wrote a poem. And then I wrote another one. And now, wait for it… I liked it. I enjoyed writing something that doesn’t make sense, but it almost doesn’t have to (hey, it’s a literary device, I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, man). I can literally use some of my incoherent thoughts, transfer them into some analogies and metaphors (without realising I’m doing it) and it doesn’t have to be technical or make sense to the average eye. Interpret it how you will, and all the while, I’m releasing some serious aggression that would be inappropriate to take out on the average bystander.

I’m gonna keep doing this. And then you know what? Maybe you’ll even get some poetry to read.



For someone who claims to have not cared a whole lot about uni (clearly a blatant lie I try to convince myself of) and only doing the bare minimum required, I was pretty busy over the whole exam period. Even though I literally had like, two proper exams. Either way, it’s been well over a month since I’ve completed those exams and those subjects for the rest of my life. Which is exciting, since the first thing I did after completing my final exam was downing a tequila shot and purchasing more than the average human’s necessary quantity of goon.

Point being, I can’t really use exams as a proper excuse for not writing or posting anything. I even managed myself a little position with (which you should really check out, they post some super cool stuff) as a contributing writer in the hopes of expanding and improving my current portfolio. Again, back to the point; I’ve been lazy with writing on a larger scale than just my average little blog you see here. I’ve hardly even submitted anything to my editor, which is really negligent on my behalf, especially since this is an amazing opportunity to boost my career prospects. But worry no more, cause I am back. And hopefully more consistently.

I’ve decided to alter my degree at university (not quite sure whether I mentioned this, and as you recall I’m far too lazy to scroll through old posts and troll for the vague sentence in which I discuss it). This year I undertook study in a double degree of a Bachelor of Journalism and a Bachelor of International Studies. As of next year (if all transferring forms get approved) I will be studying a Bachelor of Communication and Media Studies (majoring in Journalism-Professional Writing) and a Bachelor of Creative Arts (majoring in creative writing). The decision to change degrees was not a difficult one, and it’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy my degree this year. It’s just that I took a real good look at what I wanted in the future. I want to write, I want to read, I want to help stories get out there; be they fictional or not. This new degree will help me achieve that. During a meeting with man who deals with these kinds of situations (he happens to be a Creative Writing lecture, so he was overly stoked in my decision to enter his field), he said to me, “This is a really great degree if you ever wanted to get into publishing and/or editing”, and that was when I knew this was the right choice. “That’s exactly what I want to get into”, I told him.

Soooooooooooo, anyways. I’m trying to get back into some writing. I’ve had ideas bubbling for the past few weeks, and when you forget to write shit down, it usually floats on into the room of requirement, never to be found again.

Today is the 23rd of December, or “Christmas Eve Eve” as we all know and love it. It doesn’t really feel like Christmas to me though. Apart from the obvious, it’s not fucking cold. What’s with that anyways? Like, I know it’s when Jesus was… born? Is that right? But Christmas should be filled with snow and pine trees and big fluffy sweaters. Australia really should’ve changed Jesus’ birthday to June or something. I guess the country doesn’t really have that sort of power though, it would kind of stuff up the system. But this year, my parents aren’t here. I’ve spent Christmas without my father before, just because he’s been occupied with his work situation over in the states, but this year my mother is there with him and us four kids are here, fending for ourselves. It’s not too much of an issue, since my grandmother has promised us a Christmas dinner. Which, allows me the glory of sleeping in after producing what will be one of 2014’s biggest and best hangovers.

However, despite the positive points to this Christmas day, I have one rather large complaint. Why am I in charge of cooking the god damn turkey? Who deemed me capable, responsible, trustworthy enough to cook and tend to the most important aspect of Christmas dinner. My grandmother ordered and purchased a rather large, succulent turkey and delivered it to our house. Myself, my three brothers, all standing there, chatting away as she tells us to place the turkey into the freezer until Tuesday morning (today, thank lordy mae that I remembered), when we should then move it into the fridge to defrost until Christmas morning. We all nodded, “Yes, Barbie, not a problem. We’ve got this covered”.

“Now, Annika”, she says. What? Me? Yeah, okay, what’s up? “I will bring over a list of instructions on how to prepare and cook the turkey on Christmas day, and I’ll come over about an hour before dinner to prepare the other things.”

This sentence was clearly directed at me, and no one else. I am to undertake the domestic housewife role and prepare the three males of the house a feast worth mouthwatering for. I’m gonna put it out there; she’s completely overestimated my abilities.


Remember how way back at the beginning of this post how I made like, a large number of excuses for not writing and publishing any posts whatsoever, no matter how trivial they were? Yeah, so what started out to be a post about pre christmas jitters, turned into something that sat quietly in my drafts folder being like, “yeah sick, you forgot about me because you decided to get high with your friends at the beach. That’s cool man, that’s cool”.

It’a been a month and I’m just gonna shut the fuck up and press post because like, that was a near 900 words of my time. Time to get it into the world and maybe write some other stuff now that work has completely slowed down and I still have a whole month off until uni goes back. Somebody entertain me. Anybody?


I’m pretty sure I’ve made some sneaky sly references about my obsession with my stuffed pink walrus named, Mookie. Let me tell you a little bit about her, and the other weird soft toys that I have a strange connection to, along with my plan to make Mookie famous.
Australian’s are known for being extremely nostalgic and love talking about the past. Sometimes, I feel like I basically still live in it. Either there or the future; neither which is a very healthy way to be, but eventually it’ll change and for right now, so be it.

My whole life I’ve been obsessed with my favourite movie, The Little Mermaid. That obsession extends to the character herself and has then blossomed to an infatuation with any kind of mermaid or under the sea creature, red hair, anchors, and the likes. I don’t really have a specific Ariel “thing” that I was attached to as a child, more just a collection. Like my toilet seat, my sleeping bag, my suitcase, numerous dolls and figurines etc.
While the interest with Ariel and The Little Mermaid is still, most definitely, the strongest and strangest connection I’ve had to anything, it’s not even apart of my soft toy collection. Okay, so that really didn’t have a lot to do with the whole “#makemookiefamous campaign”, but I felt like Ariel needed a mention if I’m currently talking about symbols from my youth.

My main soft “toys” (you’re probably going to get annoyed and frustrated, like many of my friends, because two of these items are not toys at all) are, Mookie (da walrus),  a baby Minnie Mouse, a squishy green pillow named Mogu (that’s where people get angry, “you can’t name a fucking pillow!”, I disagree) and what is now a few strings woven together, Blankie.

Minnie came with me absolutely everywhere; majority of my childhood photos consist of her and blankie. I obtained a strong connection with her character and owned many other Minnie Mouse memorabilia, including a towel, a diary and a lot more.
Mookie is probably just as old as Minnie, but she was sort of absent for a while. When we picked up to move to Australia, my Mum was fairly picky about the concept of shipping stuffed animals to a whole new country when her youngest child was turning 12.
My grandmother used to work for really good quality toy companies, so we did have a lot of great stuffed animals that mum couldn’t conceive giving away. She made us all pick out a few from the lot that we wanted in our future, and packed them in a box. We had a very large container of our things shipped to Australia and the rest remained in a storage unit in our hometown. When unpacking, and not finding the box labeled “stuffed animals” and mum’s reply of, “I don’t even know what I did with those”, I began to be very weary of Mookie and her friends’ whereabouts.
Seven and a half years passed, sometimes it would cross my mind and a wave of panic would come over me; surely I didn’t throw her away or sell her. Mookie was by far one of my favourite toys and there’s no way I would let that pink little freak out of my life for good, it just didn’t seem fathomable.
While in Fairfield last year, Mum and her good friend, Denise unpacked the storage unit and drove all of it’s fillings out to Boulder, Colorado where my dad works and my parents are currently renting an apartment. During the “sorting” and “unpacking” of the unit, there piled up high, was a small brown box, a black sharpie scribble in my mum’s hand writing, “stuffed animals”. I ripped off the packing tape, not so smoothly, and dug through dense fur, beading and plastic eyes until I saw the colour I was looking for; the shade of dusty pink that I would never forget. I held Mookie tight, squeezing her far tighter than what’s appropriate for an 18 year old, and I took her straight home with me.

So now, along with my return back to the country, my friends have had to endure Mookie’s presence. She’s a little in your face, she’s always held close tight to me and features in majority of my snapchats and other forms of social media. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of my distant acquaintances were aware of her existence. But that’s not really an issue for me at the present time, since I’ve decided to launch the #makemookiefamous campaign. Being realistic, she probably won’t make herself known outside of the Illawarra, however the goal is high.
It all began when I took this polaroid selfie with her;


It then came to me; everyone needs a photo with her.

Everyone meaning the important people in my life and basically anyone that enters my bedroom and has an interaction with her. I might have gotten ahead of myself with whole “making her famous” scenario, thinking that one day she would star in a children’s book (I still kinda think this is plausible, but I may have been a little stoned when I came up with that idea).
After purchasing some more polaroid film, my idea had begun to blossom. Here are my current participants in the project;

Olivia and Mookie

They have a fairly good relationship, since Olivia is probably the most present in her life.


Tenaya and Mookie

Tenaya isn’t very impressed by Mookie, she’s told me on more than one occasion that she doesn’t like her tusks. She has a super weird obsession with her stuffed crocodile though, to the point that croccy has his own Instragram; @croccy_saltwater. So, she kinda gets it.


Harriet and Mookie

Harriet is convinced that Mookie is a boy and just genuinely confused by her existence.


Marcus and Mookie

The first blood relative who I’ve gotten to partake in this unusual charade (I can’t wait to see what my parents think). Mookie’s head got stuck like this for a while after, and I become very frantic while Marcus continued to laugh.


That’s all on that for now. Maybe you’ll see her in a children’s book or possibly Vogue one day, but until then, you’ll be sure to see Mookie on here and my Instagram page.



Thought I’d share my major assignment for my JRNL102 class on this blog. It’s originally posted on where I usually post majority of my university assignments in order to separate them from anything posted on here. BUT, I had a lot of fun doing this one and the following is exactly what you would see on the other site:

When you think of a typical librarian, whether it’s at your local town library or the selective one in your high school, she is usually older, grumpy and sporting a knitted sweater and glasses. Her understanding of technology is limited and her priorities seem archaic. This, however, is not the case for the librarian at my old high school. Danielle Ornelas is a mere 31 years of age, but seems even younger and refreshed to most of her students.

After chatting with her about the decision crippling road that was her previous career path, Danielle told me how she came to realise that being a librarian suited her passions the best. At first, studying to be a teacher, but then realising through her practices that it wasn’t really for her, “I just found that disciplining was something that really worked against the grain of who I was… I couldn’t find how to do it in a pleasant way”.

Luckily for Danielle, she was able to pursue her passion of reading and literature in a way that she can still pass it onto children; through being a teacher librarian at a local high school.

Chatting to two of the current senior students, they didn’t have a negative word to say about Miss Ornales. Most students might have taken the opportunity to express their true feelings about an authority figure, but these girls said that “everybody respects her” and “everyone follows the rules”.

Danielle works hard to try and maintain somewhat of an interest in young adult fiction, or at least remain an advocate for that type of genre. She is aware of the ways that she pushes the boundaries on the different types of literature that she allows in her library, but there are many other local school librarians that Danielle has used as a guide for what she considers acceptable for students.

Despite some of the shock that people express when she informs them of her career, Danielle’s passion hasn’t waned. While she keeps all future prospects open, this isn’t just something that she does to get by; it’s how she enjoys her way of life. For Danielle, it’s priceless to pass on her love for something and listening to kids gush about books and reading in the very same ways that she would.

Twitter @annikatague #jrnl102

Music by Grace Potter
Interviwees: Danielle Ornelas, Imogen Bakewell, Vanessa Sporne
Interviewer: Annika Tague


I’m waiting for my next episode of Sex and the City to load and just giving Carrie Bradshaw’s character a bit of a mental analysis (mental on my part). I look at her and can’t decide whether I love her, hate her, love to hate her or hate to love her. Most girls play the game “Which SATC character would you be?”- we all have the one that we are, the one we want to be and then the one we don’t want to be. No one wants Miranda- everyone takes that as the biggest insult. Whenever I bad mouth Miranda, my father is the one person who really gets up me about it- “Miranda is a really strong female role and she’s career driven and raises a kid on her own- you don’t really know what you’re talking about, you’re selling her too short.” And I always laughed, because this wasn’t my mother sticking up for a strong fictional role, saying I should idolise and look up to her- it’s my dad we’re talking about. I’d shake my head and tell him he was a stronger feminist than most of the females I know. Which is completely true, but now I’m starting to see his point about her. Apart from when she’s whining and doesn’t really take her life in her own hands, she’s actually a lot of fun. I can’t believe I’m even saying this- don’t quote me, this doesn’t mean she’s the character I want to be most like. I want to be Samantha. Independent, sexual, strong, charismatic and confident. Most women want to be like her, or they shame her and call her a slut. Now, I think she’s a great role model, particularly in terms of feminism. I, obviously a woman (would I be writing and analysing SATC so much if I wasn’t? Ok- I take that back, I did give the example of my dad earlier), am all for equal rights in terms of access, political representation etc. I’m not one of those girls who hold the slogan “I don’t need feminism” because, we clearly do. Without all of the feminists from our past, how would we be where we are today? Modern day feminism has taken a whole different path and there’s a lot of things I like about it, and then a lot of things I don’t. I’m not into man shaming. I like boys too much. They’re too pretty and too emotionally controlling (not always on purpose) for me to rule them out of a significant role within my life. The thing I love about this modern day empowerment is the boost in sexuality. Samantha Jones might’ve been one of the firsts to do it, but now we’ve got women like Beyoncé and Nicki Minaj completely engrossing female sexuality and that is so something I can get on board with. After travelling, I learned a few things- try not to pass too much judgement and who gives a fuck? Most people can do anything and it doesn’t phase me too much anymore. My opinions are extremely strong and I feel that I have a firm grasp on what I hold to be right, wrong and the truth, but then again, it’s a wide world and each to their own. Whether her ass is fake or not, she rules it and she owns it and I standby when I say that NM is a woman I truly look up to.
In my PHIL106 class we had a discussion topic on pornography and a girl went on to say that most music videos these days are basically not far from porn (well, that is just not something I agree with, but uh, okay.) and Nicki Minaj’s Anaconda video was one of the most disturbing, explicit and degrading that she had seen. Students mmmm’ed and nodded in agreement, and before the teacher responded or anyone else made any further comments, the room was fairly silent and I said “Shhyeah, it’s awesome”. There were no further statements made about the video, otherwise I would be reporting on the extremely heated dialogue that would’ve soon followed.

K, I’m gonna get back to Carrie Bradshaw now. She’s not who I want to be, she’s not who I don’t want to be- she’s just the one that I am. A writer, a fashion lover, an over thinker and sometimes a drama queen. I watch her live her life, questioning every little detail of it and regurgitating all of her thoughts and questions into a column that she puts out to the people of NYC, hoping to find answers along the way. Is this something I should do? Look at every aspect of my life, question it and turn it into a piece of writing? Because if that’s the case, I have to wrack my brain more daily than I already do. There’s benefits in it though. My friend Harriet told me I should write about my love life on here, because hey! People love love… “And then maybe whoever you’re writing about will read it and they will take some serious action because they’ll know exactly what you’re thinking!” She got a little carried away. No way am I spouting it out on here for people to accidentally stumble across and then be like, “hey, so if you really felt this way, why didn’t you just tell me?” Rejection is not something I’m super fond of. So, I’m not gonna go babble on here about how what I think was once a mutual feeling has now turned into deep, unrequited love. And I’m not even entirely sure if that’s what it is now, because it’s too god damn awkward to ask.
This is turning into an explosive oestrogen filled diary session, goodbye.


So, when I’m feeling guilty about not studying for my INTS120 exam tomorrow because I’m too busy re-watching Sex and the City (I’m up to season 6 and she’s dating Burger and apart from the fact that he dumps her via sticky note and their sex life doesn’t start out too shabby- he’s totally my kinda man), and I can’t even bring up the courage to write something of any interest (but hey, this is kinda just flowing, isn’t it? Or is it?)- I’m just gonna share some silly wittle things.

Yesterday, I decorated above my desk with a few of my favourite things. Photos, polaroids, post cards, a Ravenclaw house sticker and my two favourite poems. Why not share those poems with y’all? They’re too fabulous not to read over and over again. At least I think so anyways.



A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.

– William Butler Yeats

And secondly,


She had blue skin,
And so did he.
He kept it hid
And so did she.
They searched for blue
Their whole life through,
Then passed right by–
And never knew.

– Shel Silverstein

Ok, so I was going to explain why I love those two particular poems so much, however I feel as though the emotion received from them is pretty self explanatory. But- I will say, they bring me back to earth, in the way that they remind me how badly we all want love, and how easily it can be destroyed, pass you by, or not found at all.

There’s some old fashion pessimism to really ground you for the week. You’re welcome.

On a side note- here’s my outfit for Melbourne cup. You could’ve probably worked that out given the whole snapchat caption, but Ima pretend you’re all stupid. Like most people.


I also bought those shoes in black- 2 for $50, you could say I’m feeling proud.