I’m probably too proud of the fact I started working at the age of thirteen. I was about to start highschool (back in 2004/5 highschool still began with year 8), and I got a terrible job opening a discount clothing store in Harbour Town—or whatever the hell it’s called now. It was a few months of refused toilet breaks, guilt trips, and intimidation by the manager—I forget her name—until I quit and began work at the Murray street Java Joe. My aunty managed the classy city cafe/juice bar, as it was then, and placed me behind the till at 5:30 on a saturday morning for my first shift. 

Em and I love to cook. We have a few go-to recipes for every occasion. They’re simple, quick, cheap, and hands down the most delicious food we eat. I know, everyone who cooks apparently cooks the best of their favourite dish, I guess you’ll just have to trust that I’m speaking objectively. Our meals are excellent. 

Life. It’s hard. There are no respawns, no checkpoints, no quicksaves (for non-gamers, these terms basically mean there are no do-overs). If you mess up, that’s a mark you’ll have on your personal history, forever. Sounds harsher than it really is. Or rather, than it can be.

Recently, I have found that courtesy is not always free. Synonymous with respect, courtesy is defined as “the showing of politeness in one’s attitude and behaviour towards others.” As the old English proverb goes, manners maketh man. The elaborated version? Politeness and respect are essential factors in functional human society, some think defining qualities of human beings. Now I don’t agree with that last because we start to digress into questions like, What is considered polite? and Who gets to decide what the standard for human behaviour is? However, I think we can all agree that showing simple courtesies—from using polite functions like ‘please’ and ‘thankyou’, to arriving on time—are basic indications of the respect we have for ourselves and others. 

Men are overwhelmed by choice, in their pursuit of happiness. 

I don’t want to disrespect anyone stuck in a place seemingly impossible to escape, where choices seem like mirages in the desert, leading you not to an oasis but further into the searing dunes. I can only speak to my experience, and hope that a little insight will lead to a little more appreciation and respect for such a luxury as choice. 

Not everyone is fortunate to have a supportive partner. 

There are as many reason for not finding your person as there are potential candidates. For starters it’s extremely difficult to initiate a relationship—where do you go to meet a nice man or woman? What do you say? What is the protocol for telling someone you find them beautiful and interesting and want to continue exploring what they have to offer? How much of yourself do you share and at what point do you share your hidden depths? 

We grew up poor. Not the kind of poor that left us on the street or going hungry, but there was always a strain where money was involved. My dad worked two or sometimes three jobs at a time, about fifteen to eighteen hours a day. Starting at 2AM with the Brownes Milk delivery rounds in Perth CBD, ending at 2PM for a quick nap and back from 5PM to 10PM to load the truck he would take out again the next morning. My mum was at home most of the time, first with myself and my sister, then another two sisters a few years later. We had a house in the ‘posh’ part of Perth’s ghetto, that was at least partially paid for by my dad’s parents. Before that, my mum, dad, and I lived in a granny flat in my grandparent’s backyard that’s actually still there and has been used by a few family members since, including me. 

Some days, I feel like shit. By which I mean; I’m fighting an uphill battle, its raining, my shield and sword weigh a ton, and my adversary has fresh troops rotating at the crest. I have to remind myself in those moments that its okay — human evolution is predicated on conflict.

If you’re a parent, and you’re not exhausted, you’re not putting in the work.

Parenting is the highest responsibility in the world. No matter what kind of earth-breaking job you have—you could be President of the Northern Hemisphere—it will not compare to the upbringing of the succeeding generation. How can it? Whatever work you do in this life will be made obsolete. Perhaps in one lifetime, perhaps in fifty, but obsolete your life’s work will be.

What is your why? What is your reason for doing what you do, for slogging your guts out, for the tears you shed and the weight you lose (or gain—shout out to my emotional eaters), for the wretched state of your adrenal glands and the nights you spend awake for no reason—just tired and wired from stress I guess?