Superhero

Being a superhero seems like it would be totally awesome. We spend much of our childhood running around the house with our undies on the outside pretending to be one, and every time another comic book adaptation comes out at the movies I’m like “shit yea, I’d be a GREAT superhero!”
But have you ever considered how much thought and planning would go into being one? I have devised this basic list of things all potential superheroes must consider considering.

1. What Superpower? This isn’t something you usually get to decide in the comic book world, but it bears considering. Would you have one specialty, or a range of powers? Would you superpower be the result of mutation, radiation, alien birth or advanced technology?
2. It’s all in the name- So, you now have your superpower, but what’s your name going to be? It needs to be catchy. It has to sum you up. Do you want “the” at the beginning? Do you end your name with man, woman, boy, girl, thing? Once you’ve chosen, use connections with the newspapers to ensure the name catches on. There’s nothing worse than getting getting “the soaring vigilanty” monogrammed into your suit only to find out the press are calling you “fly girl”
3. Disguise- What will your suit look like? How will you design it, and more importantly, who will make it? The Spiderman movies are full of crap, because he certainly didn’t whip up that suit. There is probably a go to woman for all superhero costuming needs. Try the yellow pages. Do you have a cape, or a mask? Are boots included in the package? Undies on the outside, inside or none at all?
4. Your Posse- The next thing to decide is how you roll. With a crew or league, alone, or with a trusty sidekick? Remember to build up superhero contacts even if you work alone, in case you all need to come together to fight an ultimate evil.
5. Your Enemies- You must now consider whether having a arch nemesis or main foe is important to you. Sure, they can be a hassle, but you’re just not really all that super till you have one. Do you piss off an inept bad guy for the sake of having one, or do you wait until you attract a super villain who will force you to learn about yourself in order to defeat him in a epic battle?
6. Who do you save? One must certainly consider the scope of their operations. Do you save only those within the bustling city you inhabit, or are you the type to try and save the world? Do you work in only large scale savings, or would you take a moment out to help out an old lady cross the road?
7. How do people contact you? How will you allow people to contact you? Will you have a bat signal, or a powerpuff girl-esque red phone, or will you rely on hearing peoples screams for help? Maybe you could invest in a surveillance system and employ minions to monitor it…
8. Don’t give up your day job- Do you have a day job, like superman? Or, do you plan on being a rich, like Batman? Day jobs can provide good alibis, but it can be frustrating if you have to try and save half of Indonesia and get back home in time to show your clients through an open house.
9. Love Love Love- This one is a hard one. Do you date another superhero, or a ‘normie’? It would be easier to date another superhero, but think how much it would suck if they saved Indonesia, sold a house and cooked dinner, and all you did that day was stopped an old lady getting mugged. At least with a normal person, arguments could be solved with “yea well, I saved three cities and an orphanage today, what did you do?!” If you dated a normal person, would you do it as your superhero persona, or as a normal person? Would you tell them or frantically juggle your split lives? Whatever you do, don’t do a Smallville and spend half a season bitching about your damn secret…
10. And finally, and most importantly, Who would you want to play you in a movie of your exploits? Assuming your life as a superhero goes well, and you have a good superpower, a flashy costume, a catchy name, a sidekick, a lover with a sweet ass and a good set of foes, someone is going to want to make a movie. Don’t wait till then to plan your top five potential actors. Let Ben Affleck do it and your name is tarnished forever, but hold out for Christian Bale and girls everywhere will be happy in the pants at the thought of you. And remember, no matter how quirky the director is, say no to nipples on the suit. Just no.

Being a superhero can be a life of excitement and glory, but if you fail to plan out your superhero strategy effectively, or if you’re a total whiny bitch about it, you can spend your life stricken and torn about decisions to be made. So draw up plans now, and when the fateful day comes when you trip over some advanced technology, fall into radioactive waste, go back into time and make yourself a mutated half alien with heat vision, you’ll be set.

Debate: I hate Rugby

I hate rugby. There, I said it. I hate playing it, I hate watching it, I hate hearing about it. I hate our national obsession.

My dislike for the sport becomes particularly evident when they have the world cup on, or any such tournament that means I have to hear about them more than usual. Right now the All Blacks are everywhere. EVERYWHERE.

I get that the All Blacks equal lucrative advertising but for gods sake will someone tell them to stop whoring out the damn brand? The market is saturated with All Blacks related advertising. Everywhere I am hit with images of large thighed men telling me to consume powerade, coke, moro bars, weet-bix and anchor milk. Telling me to fly Air New Zealand, call with telecom, fill up at mobil, use mastercard, wear nike and listen to a CD.
Well fuck you all, I’m going to drink pepsi, use my visa to fly virgin and eat nestle. Even my friends, who aren’t rubgy grinches, have become tired of the ceaseless barrage of All Black related advertising.

However, the ads that I hate the most are the ones that carry slogans like: "We're all made of the same stuff!" "Every New Zealander's up for it!" "There's four million people on our team!" "Blood type: BLACK!”
I despise them because they insinuate that order to be a real New Zealander, I have to give a damn about rugby. No one is taking my buzzy bee away from me because I refuse to buy into the rugby culture.
These ads are also a clear example of the blind patriotism that surrounds the All Blacks.

It’s part of the little country syndrome New Zealand has. We are so desperate to make it on the world stage that we cling to anything that may get us there. We bask in the glory, on a fervent national scale, as if buying an All Blacks scarf and phoning them a damn cheer actually contributed in some way to their win. WHICH IT DIDN’T GUYS. It’s not only rugby though. How can anyone forget the way we humped the leg of Team New Zealander a few years back? (until they lost, of course)

I respect everyone’s right to like Rugby (not), and have no problem with you getting up insanely early to sit in your home or at a pub and yell at a TV. But I will bitch slap the next person that looks at me as if I have committed treason because I couldn’t care less.
Why does rugby deserve my unconditional love? They’re good at what they do but why must you become so frenzied over it? What makes it more worthy of praise and attention than any other sport? Why do you all obsesses over it while other sports are sidelined? I propose a sporting fanaticism roster. This year we all love Rugby, but next year it is the rhythmic gymnastics team’s time to shine, and after that, let’s worship a sport stacking team. “YouTube” sports stacking, because that’s something I can definitely get in behind.

Sea Monkeys are amazing.

I missed out on a lot of fads as a child, being either too old or not nearly spoilt enough.
I was too old for a Tickle Me Elmo, and Furbies scared the shit out of me. (srsly, with the creepy little eyes furbish, inability to turn them off, and exorbitant price) And I totally missed the curve on the whole yo-yo thing...

I was, unfortunately for my parents, one of those horribly bratty children who coveted everything they saw on TV and was a bitch to buy presents for. I always felt like the world was against me because I never seemed to get any of the awesome toys of my generation.

I have, of course, matured and learnt to let most of my childhood toy related greivences go.

but I still wish I had had me some Sea Monkies.



I mean, they were fucking magic!
You add like three sachets of stuff to the cute little tank and PRESTO! you had Sea Monkeys!
I was totally amazed as a child by the way they just seemed to grow out of nowhere.
Never having them myself, I also fully believed they looked like little Monkeys.

And the range of accessories they had for sea monkeys was awe inspiring. I never knew anyone who had more than the basic tank, but they had submarines and wristwatches and themed tanks and everything. How could you not fall in love with them?


My wonder and amazement about Sea Monkeys remained untainted until i began working at a pet store. My manager told me one day that Sea Monkeys were just brine shrimp (that bitch!) ruining my childlike love of them forever. Needless to say I felt totally ripped off that they weren't magical monkeys of the sea, living in little colonies together like the cartoons on the box showed me.

Dreams, man.

It was my birthday party last night, and though it is tempting to regail all with stories of my drunken escapades, more important things need to be talked about.

1. I spilt booze on my laptop and my F key sticks.

2. I had one pretty awesome dream. Which brings me to the point of this post.

So I'm pretty much in a room, but only not. [Refer to diagram] So start by imagining a room, a totally square, tall ceiling room. Now imagine you are standing in a castle in the left back corner of the room, staring out in front and to the side.

Now, the area directly in front of you is Germany. Germany has a spattering of buidlings, and what may be a concentration camp in the far corner.

The question mark on the diagram is another country, but I can't remember what and it doesn't matter anyway.

Just in my line of dream-vision is Sweden.

My dream starts out as i am looking down at these countries. It's a bit like a risk board, and I am the grand pervayor. I hold no ties to any country.

Then "sweden" comes to talk to me. I say sweden becuase this person represents sweden in a way that only in dreams can make sense.

I'm talking to sweden about Germany and suddenly it appears maybe I'm "germany".

I'm telling them that Germany is called "The white country", passionately trying to tell this person about the sadness and desperation of "the white country"

At some point I tell sweden that they have grass, and that Germany has no grass!

A dream-fast forward then takes place.

The room is still the same in the sense that it is the "same" room somehow, only there is no germany or sweden or any of that, and the floor is hardwood.

I am in the room with a mexican/spanish/antonio baneras man. There are two other people in the room, of whom may or may not be my friends Scott and Michael. The man begins to shoot, and hits Scott.

Suddenly I am on the ground and this man is trying to kill me. I'm trying to fight him off but it doesn't seem to be doing any good. He is choking me and I am scratching at his face, and although marks are showing, it isn't stopping him and he isn't hurt. I can't seem to properly fend him off or push him away. He just keeps killing me.

[End Scene/wake up]

So yeah. Pretty awesomesauce.

Planning my funeral

It is necessary to start off my saying that I am not suicidal in any way shape or form. Nor do I plan to die. Ever.

That said, if I were to die young, it would be tragic and heroic aplenty. People would come from far and wide to mourn the loss of such a bright vivacious woman. Men and women alike would declare their love for me, and scorn the heavens that I was not still here on earth to be appreciated like I clearly should be. Ever seen the funeral from little fish? I would have TWO giants.

In all seriousness, my funeral is something I have occasionally thought about. Above all, I'd wish to be cremated, and for my ashes to be distributed among my close friends and family, to do with as they see fit. Snort me with cocaine, take me on a road trip, scatter me to the sea, keep me on their mantle, make me into a ring. Anything.

But knowing my burial preference is not what started my funeral planning. All sorts of people know that and don't have elaborate death fantasies.

I watched a documentary about two years ago about a man called Jonny Kennedy, who had a skin condition that made his skin fall off. It was a touching programme, but the thing that got me thinking was when he started planning his funeral. He had a couple of months left to live and he went to get his coffin made.
"In June he ordered his coffin and went to watch it being made. He wanted a tiger carved on the side, to denote strength, and “at the far end, the Heinz beans sign. I want people at my funeral nudging each other and saying what does the Heinz beans label signify? It doesn’t mean anything but it will get them talking.”"

I remember watching and thinking Fuck, what an awesome idea.
Hence the first stage of my funeral planning. My coffin.
Seeing as I am to be cremated, I want it to resemble a matchbox, slid down to reveal my face. (Though if it is in less than presentable condition, slid up to show my feet) I want to be holding a large match in my arms.

That's as far as I got with the funeral idea, for years. I mean I didn't head out and start making myself a will after the programme or anything, because that is certainly a touch of crazy.
However to make sure that this would be carried out in the event of my tragic demise, I had to tell enough of my friends and family.


I was at a tea party last week when my funeral plan was mentioned. I can't remember why, but it got me thinking about it again.
I'm on the bus the nest day, listening to some delightful death cab when it hits me how perfect one of their songs would be for my funeral!
"what Sarah said" is a) about death, and b)has my name in it!
On further consideration it may be a bit saltey+woundy, especially if I had died of some long illness.
Even better though, is "I will follow you into the dark" which I promptly texted Amy and informed her she would be playing at my funeral. Video included in post.

Me being me, this got my started on a huge mentalisation of how my funeral and death would go down.

Alana, my twin sister, will have the duty of changing all my online accounts to reflect my deceased status
Natalie, my little sister, would have to clean my room, removing incriminating objects like dirty grundies and fetish porno, if for some reason I had any.
Jenna would have to sit at my funeral in a extravagant black had, with mesh veil, and weep dramatically into a hanky
Amy would play me aforementioned song
Jessie would read me a heartfelt poem
No one is allowed to mention God, in line with my staunch atheism
Someone has to read that "Do not stand at my grave and weep" poem, because although I think it is cliche to do so, it is a beautiful poem and would be appropriate
My funeral would be followed by a GIANT party, where everyone is to get drunk and tell crappy stories about me
I wish to have a life size cardboard cutout of myself at said party.
I have promised Amy that I will swayze her ass, and have listed my preferred medium as Melinda Gordon/Jennifer Love Hewitt, because she has excellent breasts.
Jenna is allowed to plunder my body if she happens to be there when I die. However not if she caused my death.
Someone has to bring my notebooks to the funeral and afterparty so that everyone can revel in my leet scrapbookingesque skills.
All of these plans just kind of followed on from the though about the song, while i was riding the bus.

I was text messaging Amy about it, but it suddenly hit me how abnormal it is to plan your own funeral, especially if you aren't terminally ill or suicidal. Then I realised what horrible, horrible irony it would be if I did happen to die in the near future.

I contacted the editor of Debate (the university weekly publication of which I am a contributor) and asked her if we were having a 'black issue' (to go with the white one, of course) Alas, no, but she did say I can write an article about my funeral for the 'future issue'. Done and done!

Though it is clear most people do not map out their funeral with such enthusiasm, I feel this is reflective of my quirks. I also think it's one part fun/hypothetical and one part the desire for people to be reminded of who I was if I do happen to die. I'd hate it even more if I did die and I ended up with a plain, black coffin, burial and prayer type funeral, because it's so standard and so far from who I am. I don't follow tradition in life, why would I want to in death?

So I will write about it for debate, laminate a copy of the pages, and booyah! living will!

I may have OCD

I was watching MTV once, and happened across a show about OCD sufferers. Ever since then, I have been mildly worried that I may have some non serious form of OCD. I obviously don't have it as bad as the guy who had to touch a doorknob 12 times, but I have rituals and compulsive habits.

When I walk, I count and pace according to the lines in the pavement, and sometimes breath according to the streetlamps.
I also trace around my index finger with the nail on my thumb in a figure 8 pattern, so often that I usually don't even notice I'm doing it.

I also listened to a radio documentary about a woman who had a combination of OCD and something else, which caused her to be a compulsive pack rat/hoarder.
This is what started me thinking about the OCD again, because I have great trouble throwing things away. I drive my mother crazy because my room is filled with stuff I obviously don't need but refuse to throw away. I line my walls with posters and magazine clippings because I had found them interesting at some stage and refuse to throw them out. I have boxes filled with old notes and stuff I'm forever meaning to scrapbook. I'm a sometimes sewer/scrapbooker, which means I have scores of fabric and paper that I know deep down I will probably never use but wont thow out just in case I somehow need them.

At the same time I wonder if I'm just paranoid about having OCD, and that most people could probably probe their lives and find rituals and habits.
I wonder if on some level I wish I had OCD because that would be a reasonable excuse for some of my quirks.
But then along with that I feel dreadfully guilty because no one in their right minds would want a mental disorder, would they?

On the whole it would be safe to assume that I don't have OCD.
It is far more likely one could blame my hoarding on messiness and a deep-seated desire for possessions.