I’ve just narrowly survived the manic decent into the month of madness that is, and will be my December. I keep on returning from these missions and wild forays of lunacy with fewer and fewer marbles….always a little more restless with the mundane clutter and opaque shades of bullshit that sometimes colour my days.

I all too often forget the genius in simplicity, things that used to excite us as kids are still essentially the things that should prove just as important to us today. Walking barefoot, finding magic in secret places or rolling around with your favourite person under the warm guidance of the sun. Kids totally have it all figured out…until they start growing up and getting lost, often finding themselves on the back of milk cartons. Don’t get me wrong, I maintain the same exact phobia for kids as I do snakes; and in turn follow the same behavioural conduct….

1.       In no event make eye contact.

2.       No sudden movements.

3.       Avoid interaction at all costs.

To be honest, I actively promote the growth of these two phobias…and live in hope that one day they will sprout into debilitating fears; thus protecting me from child bearing and reptiles alike. Every once in a while I have to scare myself shitless. Just the other day I actually asked a friend to hold her baby…cute kid and all but I spent the rest of the afternoon slinging back every variation of mojito I could find and then watched an entire 30 second clip on how a poffadder unhinges it’s jaws to ingest large prey- with both eyes open mind you! Self-inflicted emotional trauma has been keeping me in line for years.

(For the sake of clarity when I say “large prey” I’m not implying baby ... in this particular instance, atleast.)

There’s no reason required  for me to be psycho-analytical about a three- year old’s life philosophy- but I sure as hell have adopted for this month. So in keeping, I’ve adopted a new fascination with the alphabet….so “F” is not just for “FUCK”……

“F” is for “Fuck Moderation”.  And that’s exactly the credo I’ve followed over the past few days.

He say's cookies, but I encourage you to substitute with any of your heart's desires......

Fucking Moderation comes at a price mind you. Starting off with me braving a Deadmau5 concert in heels for 7 hours….okay, so I wasn’t in the heels per se  for the duration of those 7 hours but let’s just say my feet and those shoes aren’t talking  any more.

Genocide….it can happen…. to feet, namely my own!

The Mau5 that is Dead was independently phenomenal… I have great respect for people who are admittedly blatant about including pop culture references and threading personal ciphers  into their performance or art. It’s a pleasant escape from all the petty functionaries who usually push out product instead of art. Before we even had enough time to sufficiently assault our bed with sleep, me and Moth were up and getting ready for Vortex.

 

We travelled with friends through the golden patchwork of harvested wheat and canola fields all the way to a River Without an End, to set up camp in the Circle of Dreams. Vortex is home to one of the best venues, this side of trance town and is definitely a firm favourite of my mine.  The Pixie in our crew got initiated into the tribe by a wise old Mother Earth type, the Reverend led us to his secret hiding place behind the stage to put magic in our lungs… and where the speakers were the best seats in the house.  Moth outlived all the dj’s sets and was bouncing along merrily until he finally passed out on the dance floor the Sunday morning and proceeded to take a nap in the exact same spot up until we went home later that afternoon. I, on the other hand managed to put my beef to rest with the hairy worms, (yes….even they showed up for the party) had a conversation with a dragonfly and kept a lonely bubble as my pet for a few hours.

We lost our minds, a few people and definitely some marbles along the way, but it was well worth it! So even though I’m still catching up on the days of sleep I’ve lost, haven’t even unpacked our bags from the weekend and conveniently painted my nails to cover up the residual crud that has imbedded itself to my digits, what does remain is a Sense of Calm I carry with myself….or maybe my body is just self-regulating its pH levels. Because we all know that acid makes for a good base, but who can tell me when is appropriate to take a Rennie ant-acid? Exactomundo!!!!

And so my old adage of “Who needs a roof to party?” remains unchanged. Just in the same way as “All we need is a cardboard box to have a good time”….which my bestie has so eloquently portrayed…….

She will never fully realise my sheer hatred of her eleventy-seven pairs of jazz shoes.

And so now, I’m hurtling towards the opposite end of the spectrum which involves me looking like something that can pass as socially presentable at no less than…My Best Friend’s Wedding! So next week around about this time I’ll be swapping hairy worms for hair curlers and turning my feet once again into indentured labourers (for the very last time-BIBLE)! Instead of a Sense of Calm which I suspect will have evaporated by then; I’ll bring a Little Book of Calm…."add a dab of lavender to milk, leave town with an orange and pretend you're laughing at it".......and smoke that shit up when faced with the inevitable questions of childbearing and snakes….

Sigh, the life and times of Charlie Sunshine, I'm off to babysit my mom's trans-gendered yorkie.... #truestory!

In an effort to ensure our family’s survival during a not too distant zombie apocalypse, as well as to test our readiness against the imminent domination of the mindless masses…wait a minute (on account of my last statement, I do believe we’ve already been helically compromised), I took the liberty of revising our current contingency plan, aptly named Zurviving  Zhe Zombies v2.0. And yes, I get to make that stereotype  guilt free- it’s the only compensation I get for my fluency in the German language and culture. My parents incorrectly assumed that Germany would remain a dominating power and sent me to a German school, in retrospect, had they known that the order of the power- proficient day would be Somali Pirates, I think public school would’ve come in tops. Don’t get me wrong…I’m very gratefull- I get seasick. TANGENT!





Back on point. Let’s just say that one fatefull night last week, intoxicated by the fumes of a spontaneously combustible, not-so-cruciferous plant, myself and Funky got hold of some sticky notes and a highlighter and went to task updating our contingency plan. Besides, you know how us ladies have an unexplained affection for colourful stationary....and smiley faces. :) Like Gin Rummy always says, "Bitches lurve them smiley faces..think I'll send you one right now".



This is a cruciferous vegetable.
It is not spontaneously combustable.
This is not what I'm talking about.

 


Also, Funky....you may ask? Well, I do apologize for the overdue introduction, she is the only other organic life form that has managed to survive in our household. We have a cactus hanging on for dear life but it's really touch and go at the moment- so it's been automatically disqualified. Christened with all the pomp and ceremony befitting Simba from the Lion King, Funky Pennylope Mafikeng is the severely disgruntled, pseudo-suicidal, furry lovechild of Moth and I.

 

Introductions aside, and on to the more pressing matter of zombies. Moth made an interesting observation, stating that our plan fails to take various  technological implications into consideration. So he's talking about cerebral interference and mind control- and I'm sitting there thinking.... "Oh! I'll fashion these nifty deflective tinfoil helmets". Besides, a mind controlling zombie overlord? Highly implausible, but don't tell him I said that.... dammit these helmets don't do sweetfannybluehole.....busted!

He says....Justin Bieber.

I recant my above statement.

 

 So now that we've concluded the semi-preventative segment of the plan, our focus turns to our epic race against time to find a cure. A good friend of mine is in fact an actual scientist, however, borne out of my natural affection for the chaos theory I've decided not to consult with a chief virologist. Instead, I'm willing to take my chances against her seven years of highly specialized training and just....wing it! So in order to achieve an authentic approach I set the stage by dragging out every godforsaken glass I own, arranged them in neat rows and filled them each with an assortment of Fanta....the fun might not always find you- but the zombies sure as hell will!

Okay, so my kitchen might look more like a meth lab, but I'm satisfied with the results, so onto finding this illusive cure. Not withstanding my lack of formal scientific eduction, myself and Funky were progressing on our cure quite well. And by progressing I mean, we basically settled on the idea of simplicity and based our entire research on common household mould. Give me a brick; and I'll grow you mould. We've become quite the mould aficionado's in our efforts to preserve our family unit.

Scoff all you want ladies and gentlemen, but consider this before you throw those furry veggies away- you could potentially be disposing of valuable fungiforms that could be used in engineering a super vaccine- one the world has never seen before- thus ensuring the survival of the last bastion of human resistance. #just sayin' - that's all.

Zombie Apocalypse, you say?

Unlikely, you say?

She's got a flare for the dramatics, you say?

-YES-

The signs are all around us, and the hairy worms...they won't stop following me. If a whole genus is trying to communicate impending doom by annoying the shit out of you in the garden- then that shoulda-kinda constitute a cause for alarm. Now that you've had some time to digest this, you're more than likely thinking that this might not be that implausible. To further back my case, I'd like to refer you to what Spock once said, "If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable <insert pause> must be the truth". And you kinda don't fuck with Vulcan logic... #again- just sayin'!

Anxious, are we?

Could that be thinly veiled panic on your faces?

Don't you wish I could stop posing statements as questions?

But alas, I digress. Our plan has as much holes as Julius Malema's political rhetoric, but at least there's a sembelence of a plan. Bet you wish you had some incubated mould right now!

You're welcome!