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.


I don’t know if any of you have heard of the genius that is Sir. Stephen Markley (Yeah, I always refer to him as sir, and I feel like he would thoroughly appreciate that, and also have a good old laugh about it, so I’m gonna continue that notion), but whenever I decide to sit back and read a few chapters of “Publish This Book”, I immediately feel a rush of creative guilt that screams at me, “Annika, why the fuck aren’t you writing hilariously inappropriate anecdotes on your blog for your father to shame you for later!”. Now, I’m not going to do that, because yes, I’m fairly sure I once mentioned this URL to my dad, and while I know he appreciates my prose, I’m far too terrified of broadening his knowledge on the fact that my friends and I are all sexually active (we’re 20, it’s not wildly inappropriate at all, but no one wants their dad, or any other family member for that matter, to read about their friend having sex with a random in Byron Bay).

Anywho, after reading about 50 pages of Markley’s book, consciously constructing my fan mail that borders from a vague infatuation to a strong sexual attraction to, “I’m going to stalk you until you love me and provide me with millions of children that I’m not sure either of us really want”, I opened up the webpage to this very blog. “Annika Tague. 19 year old uni student and book worm”. All of a sudden, I blinked twice and realised that the lyrics to “Teenage Dirtbag” didn’t really apply to me anymore, because as of 8 days ago, I joined the club that is 20. And while I’m not as bothered by this increase in number as I lead on, I just feel vaguely disturbed. At the age of 11, when my eldest brother was at this point in his life, I recall thinking to myself “dang, you is old”. So, now I’m sitting out on my balcony, my feet covered in socks and shoes, yet still numb for some confusing reason in the middle of an Australian October, and I’m questioning which link on wordpress will take me to the “edit your info” page.

While blogging is fun and therapeutic and something that most aspiring journalists/writers, and any other creative souls for that matter, basically are forced to participate in, it also makes me feel like a sad 13 year old girl, writing in her journal about the curly-haired boy who decided to make her best friend his girlfriend, as her tears roll off her chin and onto her stuffed minnie mouse that she grasps tightly to her budding bosom. I’m quite happy to talk about my love for great novels or the hilarity of shows like “Parks and Recreation” and “Bob’s Burgers”. Or my iron strong opinions that I’ve learned to hold back, because sometimes arguing with someone on Facebook, who comes from an extremely privileged family, and merely holds their political views because they overheard Mummy and Daddy agreeing with Abbott’s immigration laws, is not always worth your breath.

Then, there’s the things I can’t talk about, but have a feeling I’m going to anyways, because they’re the sort of hilarious anecdotes people want to hear. They’re the kind of things that, as Markley has showed me, need to be embedded in your writing for, not just comedic value, but to prove that life is real, raw and not as serious as most people in your PHIL106 class like to make it seem. I was one of those anxious morons at the age of 16-18 who took life far too seriously. This was the age when I should have spent more time drinking, less time studying and more time kissing random boys at parties whose calves were still skinnier than my pony tail. I can’t really say I hate myself for not engaging in this type of behaviour, because I’ve made it to university (that was the overall goal of being a super lame dork, right?) and am now kissing random boys who have wider backs than me and manage to kiss and grope at the same time without stopping to look where their hand should go next. Maybe I took my time getting here and maybe I’m slightly hating myself for writing such a quizzical and existential piece of blatant banter, but let’s blame Markley. Markley made me do it.

And as I write that, it becomes my number one fear that he’ll somehow find the link to my blog because, “Hey man, I read some chick’s blog from Australia who really wants you to impregnate her”, and he’ll scoff at my nonsensical writing, tell me that I’m a basic bitch and laugh about it with his buddies, who I secretly all want to be my friends as well. Sick one, Annika. Maybe next time you should write about the boy you’re in love with but too scared to admit anything to, and subscribe to all other female teenage blogs who post about the same trivial bullshit. Oh, but wait, you’re not even a teenager anymore…