The Postmodern Chronicles Of Hayley

There’s a new generation of store clerks. The type that are there to sell you their products, but question you on virtually every single item that you buy. The customer is always right, yet they still recieve a lecture on what they are purchasing.

For instance, if you are buying a bottle of Coca-Cola, you get the whole ‘it rots your teeth’ lecture that they have quite obviously memorised word-for-word from one of those ridiculous Today Tonight specials. It’s the same with energy drinks. It’s the ultimate taboo to even walk up to the counter with a can of V, Red Bull, Mother or Rockstar.

And don’t get me started on cigarettes. The government have spent millions ensuring that your 25 pack of Marlboro Reds are covered in health warnings and disgusting pictures that look like they’ve just come out of the special effects unit on a movie set. But the store clerk still makes it their business to lecture you on the health hazards connected to the product you are buying. “Thanks. I can read.”

They give you a dirty look when you walk up to the counter with spray paint cans. Just because we’re buying spray paint, does not necessarily mean that we’re gonna cover public property with it. Last time I checked, they work fine on canvas and plywood. And if someone is over 18, it doesn’t automatically rule out their intention to graffiti on everything.

And do you remember how nervous you were the first time you bought condoms? As if it isn’t awquard enough, you get the whole “what have you got planned for tonight, eh?” from them. It’s quite obvious that in approximately an hour, these latex contraceptives are gonna be rolled over some male’s schlong. No wonder there’s such a problem with teen pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases. It’s those damn intimidating store clerks!

These people obviously aren’t paid for each sale they make, that’s for sure.

First in the news today - I GOT HAYLO BACK!
For those who have been living under a blog-reading rock, Haylo is my puppet. She’s just come back from a business trip to the Board Of Studies Visual Arts HSC marking centre. The accomodation there was certainly not a 5 star luxury hotel. She stayed in a cardboard box for the majority of her holiday. I will make up for her uncomfortable journey by treating her to a prime position when she gets home to my house, where she will be smothered with love and attention. I’m sorry, Haylo! I promise I will never put you through that trauma again.
Geez, if I’m like this with a reticulated foam puppet, I weap for the day when I may have to put a pet in cargo.

Probably the biggest news in my life (that I am legally allowed to disclose) is that I am back at school. I have joined the ranks of the dreaded ‘Prelims’ and I’m studying HSC Drama at Bradfield for another year. You should see my timetable, it’s practically a bunch of empty squares, except for the brief 3.5 hours a week when I am required to go to school. I can’t complain too much about doing school again. Not wanting to sound like an old geezer, but there certainly is a generation gap noticable in my class. Who knew what a big difference one scholastic grade could make to me having practically nothing in common with my classmates? It could be the fact that I live in another generation (metaphorically speaking) anyways. Or it could be that they placed a personal ad during prime time Channel Ten TV inviting every 16-7 year old bonehead to join the grade at Bradfield. The latter seems more likely.

It’s very very strange. I am at the same school I was last term, at the same time, with the same teachers… Nothing has changed, except none of my old friends are there. (”But Hayley, you didn’t have any friends anyways.”) I rest my case.

On another note, Scradley, Zac and I came up with an ingenious plan last weekend. There’s mobile coffee, mobile jumping castles and mobile jukebox hire. But what if you could hire the party to come to you? That’s why we invented the ‘Mobile Gillings House’. If hired, we’ll rock up at the party with the dirty old couches that are downstairs at George’s house and just sit down and talk crap (and occasionally pull out a billy). The discount deal includes Caleb as part of the group, and if you don’t pay full price, he’ll talk the whole night, adding “You know what I mean?” at regular intervals. 4 hours into the party, Chezwick and Joel will come stumbling in with their jaws doing 360’s and their eyes flickering like bloodshot dying bugs. Who would want a clown at their child’s party when you can have Chezwick?

The introduction of Winston Groom’s most famous novel stated that “being stupid ain’t no box of chocolates”. But those of us that are truly stupid, do not know that they’re being treated as a stupid person would. I am not stupid. And I refuse to be doubted and treated so. No one, not even when I had blonde hair, called me a dumb blonde. The reason behind this is that those who know me best know that I would have stomped their scrotum to the asphalt if I heard them mutter those words.

I recall yesterday’s Drama class. Even though I started year 12 drama at Ku-Ring-Gai, the lack of classroom space prevented me from studying it this year. So I’ve done all the work already. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m being treated at the intellectual level of my turd-fish preliminary peers, who quite frankly don’t know their arse from their elbow. Perhaps if they took the time to acknowledge that I have already DONE this course, they would stop treating me like I have too many chromosomes.

So if one works physically harder than myself on a daily basis, does that make them smarter than me? I think not. The mental headache that permiates my brain every waking hour is enough physical pain for me thankyou very much.

I once felt like scratching a friend of mine’s eyes out. At that point, as most readers would recall, I was working as a farm hand at Emerdell Equestrian Centre. I earned that job by working my arse off. Excitedly, I alerted this ‘friend’ of the news that I was now working every spare hour I got. Her reaction? She didn’t believe me, because she didn’t think I was up to the physical task or the hard work it required wrestling Clydesdales into the wash bay.

I’m going to rise above that and prove every person wrong. I’m not stupid, and I’m not weak.

It’s a line from La Bamba. And it doesn’t need to be mentioned how fucking sexy Lou Diamond Philips is as Ritchie Valens.

Screwed? I’m starting to feel like a blow up doll full of semen.

Blued? I smoked a Winfield Blue. Pretty boring compared to my regular choice of Marlboro Reds.

Tattooed? I’d never get one. But Tom has a do it yourself homemade smiley face tattoo that he made with his insulin needle and a biro. He wants me to design him one. But if he ditches me, he’s stuck with a fucking tattoo that ’some slut’ designed him.

Ku-Ring-Gai formal was fun. I did a Chloe Byrnes and I got fucking trashed. But no ambulance came. I wasn’t that fucked. But I did manage to get my year 7 revenge on that stupid fucking chipmunk Lachlan Booth. He was passed out in Jono Abo’s parents shower. So I made it my mission to fucking kick him in his little donkey arse. That’ll teach him to be an arse hole.

It’s probably very fucking obvious that I’m fucked right now. My liver is probably angry at me. My whole body is angry at me. I don’t feed it. I fill it with too much alcohol. And I don’t sleep. Well, I’ll tell you what, Mr. Body? You can shut the fuck up and stop collaborating with my mind to make me anorexic.

I am not only macrocosmically isolated, but I’m also alone in my own personal world.
We’re always told that by being loyal and supportive to those around us, they will do the same for us.
I am currently at a most crucial time of need, and I am left abandoned by everyone I am good to.
I’m numb inside. I feel like I’ve been stripped of my strength, my dignity and my happiness, that I was so certain that I was getting back.
I’ve tried so hard to hold back the tears, but now the pain has become too much to handle.
I’m afraid that if I start to cry, I’ll never stop.
I have no one to go to.