To Upskill Or Not to Upskill?

If you were like me a couple of months ago and deemed not “essential” enough to remain employed, you probably hit up every Facebook job ad and ‘no experience required’ post known to man in the weeks that followed. I reckon I swallowed my pride so many times applying for supermarket and delivery gigs that my tonsils were about ripe for extraction. Anyway, before being thrown a life-vest by Scomo’s swift ‘LeaderSHIP’ (Jobseeker and Jobkeeper schemes), I found myself desperate to reel in any paying job or prospect I could latch onto.

On one occasion, I was actually fortunate enough to get a call back from a large recruitment agency suggesting I upskill by attending a TAFE course to better my employment opportunities. Considering this was my first reply that wasn’t a hard NO, I clung to it like mouldy cheese on an old toastie machine. After realising I probably wasn’t going to have a better chance of finding a job any sooner than the average course length of 6-8 weeks, I registered to attend the TAFE’s free information session. Despite being a paper-pushing, swivel-chair enthusiast at heart, this was my IN.


the-throne-of-a-chief-the-throne-of-a-king-44435509 (2)


The session took place in a part town many wouldn’t venture to if not for very good reason. “Right next to Zambrero’s” were the directions given. And all in all, it was actually very insightful. As I sat there, 1.5 metres away from my nearest fellow job seeker, I realised I was much more entertained by the people in attendance than the courses being discussed. With my back against the wall and no government support forthcoming at the time, I listened to every word throughout the session.

I suppose what I’m saying is, if you’re looking to navigate a clear path ahead so you’re all set for when the Government turns the money tap off, consider attending a TAFE info session yourself. Here’s a list of memorable characters I encountered which should help you on your way.


Over-enthusiastic, swoll AF hype man

Tasked with introducing the presenters, courses and escorting you to the presentation room, this guy’s got more confidence in his right bicep than most men have in their ability to pee straight at night with the lights off. It can be daunting stepping foot into a new environment, especially a new area of study or work, so it’s important to be surrounded by people like this guy that’ll confidently tell you what IS possible, as well as what’s NOT.

Jaded 40-something who’s done his research

When you’re too scared to ask the hard-hitting questions, like “how much does this course REALLY cost?” the guy in the back who’s not afraid to share what he knows is really going to help you out. Many TAFE courses offer concession rates that vary according to your situation, so you can be sure ol’ mate carrying the weight of 20 years industry experience and an entire family on his shoulders is going to ask what you may not be willing to. He may hog question time, but this guy’s your hero.


Be prepared for this loose unit to stroll in 10 minutes late with bright green hair, or earlobes spaced so wide you could throw paper aeroplanes through them. Most of us think before we speak, but the sheer volume of unfiltered outbursts from this guy did in fact lead to some insightful discussions within the class. If you’re too afraid to ask the ‘dumb’ questions, hopefully he’s around to do it for you.

Mr. Industry Contacts

The first lecturer of the morning, this career-hardened journeyman pushed 65 and appeared ready to caravan around the country never to return. With an encyclopedia of industry contacts, he’s got the skills, know-how and connections to work almost every course offered, and probably has. It’s always helpful to hear from someone who has “been there, done that” and can directly help you achieve your goals. To be honest, it was a shame he only stuck around for 20 mins as he had a lot to say. Become a sponge when this guy is around. He’s the key into your preferred industry.

For those of you wondering about the lack of female representation in this short list, I can honestly say it’s due to the shockingly male-dominated attendance I experienced. While I have no clear reason why that would be, I can only hope the nation treats all workers according to their past experience, and not the gender they identify with, when the workforce gradually pieces itself back together.

I should probably also note that to this date I haven’t yet chosen to pursue a field of study at TAFE, or any other trade college to upskill for when all this is over. Call it pride, indecisiveness… even a false sense of security. But I’ll tell you what; being eligible to claim Jobkeeper, required to work occasionally and left with enough time to pursue your real passions is not the worst way to live.



Locked up in Lockdown

Housemates or cellmates? Let’s be honest, they’re a bit of a blur right now.

It’s been 21 long days since the Government’s self-isolation measures transformed my once amicable sharehouse into Cell Block D of Shawshank. And everyday is lockdown.

While I do feel for those sorry souls living alone right now, being cooped up with your girlfriend and friend for an indefinite period of time feels a lot like serving a jail sentence… If you were in a white-collar jail, in a nice neighbourhood… and all your neighbours were also in jail.

With myself and girlfriend relegated to ‘non-essential’ employment status and our housemate, Callum, one of those privileged work-from-home types, the subtle niceties that once kept our household civil have totally evaporated. I’d roll out of bed at 9:05am and hit Cal with a sarcastic “You’re late for work, bro!” as he whipped up eggs in the kitchen. “At least I’ve got a job, loser!” he’d fire back. That was Day 2! Now we just acknowledge eachother’s presence with a shrug or middle-finger salute.


andy dufresne prison


But spare a thought for those living with +5 roomies. Especially male ones. Because in every male sharehouse, while you’ve got at least one recluse who cleans up after himself, you’ll likely also find ‘The Farter,’ ‘The Dirty-dish Stacker, and ‘The Loud-Music-Until-1am-Or-I-Fall-Asleep Blaster’. Cal and I seem to do alright covering most of these off between us.

And now for my girlfriend, Claire; the resident prison guard. While there are benefits to her reorganising my clothing drawers without request, Claire’s OCD around cleanliness has driven Cal and I to the edge a number of times already. When she’s not glued to her virtual language classes, she’s scrubbing the kitchen within an inch of it’s life and cracking the whip at anyone seen misplacing a glass. You don’t wanna ask what happens to those leaving crumbs on the cooking area.

With yard time (walks around the ‘block’) and shopping trips the only way to escape the monotony of cell life, we find ourselves looking for any excuse to leave the house. “We’re out of Tzatziki… Looks like we’ll have to go shopping again this arvo.” Desperate times. There’s not much I wouldn’t do for some fresh air, especially since a potent concoction of methane bombs has taken up residence in every room of the house.

fart smell

But when you put all of our developed, western world struggles into perspective, we know we’ve got it pretty good. Before all of this Corona-based hysteria began, Claire committed to sponsoring a child for $60 a month. Little Justine from Uganda. And considering Justine doesn’t have the option of social-distancing from neighbours living metres away, or drinking water without fetching it herself, it makes you realise who’s really serving the sentence.

There’s no doubt this period of social solitude will change our behaviour in some way moving forward. For many, it’ll be practical changes, like avoiding that wet kiss on the cheek from Nanna, or washing hands with soap after using public toilets. Other’s might finally spend those designated drinking dollars that had gathered dust for months in their account, or find themselves swapping the home gym for local muscle house to build on those iso-gains. All those movies about guys being released from jail with new hobbies and zest for life must be relatable to us, right?

I know it might feel like we’re a prisoner to our surroundings now, but when it’s all said and done, I think we’ll subconsciously miss this time at home.

One thing’s for sure… I’ll be taking my scrawny ass back to Nando’s first thing.

Short, Back and Sides

A little story about an unfortunate trip to the hairdresser. Completely fictional but not all that unrelatable… 


Short, back and sides. Four words Lizzie would have heard most days for the last 40 years. I sit patiently along the soft, worn-out bench at my local hairdresser. Two older gentlemen sit either side of me.

It was 9:30am. Too early to be out of bed on a Saturday morning in my opinion. Today though, was no ordinary Saturday. Today, was to be my wedding day.

Of course, a haircut on your wedding day is not ideal. But procrastination can be debilitating for some, and let me tell you, it feeds off deadlines.

“Zach?” asks a woman, peering around the service desk. Her eyes land on me, obviously. You don’t meet too many men above 60, like the ones next to me, with a name beginning with “Z.”

I walk over to the only empty chair in the salon and notice the woman’s name badge sitting low on her faded shirt, probably symbolic of her dwindling passion for the craft. ‘Lizzie,’ it read. Forty years fighting follicles, I’d say. Tuck-shop lady arms, a subtle limp on one side. Yeah, it showed.

“And what are we doing today?” she asks, slipping what I would describe as a ‘hair-cape’ into the back of my shirt.

“Short, back and sides,” I reply. “And just a smidge off the top.” I lift one hand around the cape, leaving half a centimetre between my thumb and index finger as to provide a reference point. Today was not a day for ambiguity.

She grabs the closest clippers, no battery. She pulls out a second set, previously hidden under a stray hair towel. This one buzzes.

“Got much on today?” she asks. I feel the heavy vibrations of the clippers against my skull.

“I don’t think so, really.”

Not one for small talk, I wasn’t about to share today’s proceedings with a chin-wagging specialist. Lizzie pulls out the scissors, running her wrinkly hands through the top of my head. She grasps a handful of strands, leaving no hair between her hand and my skull. Surely she’s not going that short, is she?

I notice my palms becoming sweatier by the second as Lizzie tighten hers grip, lining up each strand as they curl around her fingers.

She extends her thumb through the scissors, about to hit the trigger on her hair rifle.

Taking aim at the roots, she leans closer to my head, clamps down on the scissors and…


There’s been a terrible mistake. That’s not a half a centimetre. That’s two months of growth, gone. Just like that.

I wait for a reaction.


For 10 long minutes, she continues to replicate the deforestation of the Amazon Rainforest on my scalp. I feel the Mercury rising. Surely it’s hotter in here now than when I arrived.

They say life flashes before your eyes in its final moments. The same could be said when your head looks like hurricane Katrina has just passed through it.

Absolutely devastating. And hours before my wedding, no less.

“All done! How’s that?” she asks proudly.

“Amazing!” I reply, eager to escape the atrocity in the mirror and be on my way.

But on my way to where? I can’t be seen in public like this… or at home, or anywhere.

I pay at the front desk and walk out.

“I’ll see you next time!” she shouts.

She smiles.

I smile.


Continental Drift: Part 1

Before any journey to a new place, I find myself anxiously pondering the possible view from the aeroplane window over what is to be the start of an exciting adventure. Will it be clear skies and piercing sun? Will the landscape present itself only at the final moments after the dark and turbulent clouds release it from their grasp? I recall one of the most stunning sunsets of my short life one year ago en route to Athens sometime around 20:30 local time. The fiery red sun appeared magnified and shimmery, an enticing introduction into what would be the start of my third consecutive European summer. This was most definitely one of the more favourable natural gifts a traveller could hope for.

Today’s forecast:
18 degrees
Mostly cloudy
80% Chance of rain
0% Chance of beach sighting

This was definitely not Greece in mid-July. Not even close.

Ahh, a sigh of relief washes over me as myself and a couple hundred other weary travelers pour out of the Airbus A319 arriving “on time” from Munich. I’m almost a seasoned traveler at the age of 24, and one thing I’d always wondered is why so many passengers feel hellbent on scurrying out of an aircraft like mice racing for a hole in the wall. At times it does feel like a menagerie in the confined yet structured interior of an aeroplane, though these mice share one goal: escape as quickly as possible and never look back. Today I wasn’t sure whether to mirror their haste, or simply sit back and embrace my final moments of familiarity. You see, today was no ordinary Tuesday. Today was the beginning of my one year abroad.

hobbit adventure

Hanover, or Hannover in German, was to be my humble base for the next 12 months. “Oh, you’re moving to Germany for a year? Berlin, Munich? Oh you’ll love it!”
“Well close,” I would say, “About 2 hours west of Berlin, maybe a couple south of Hamburg.”
Not exactly the bustling tourist and cultural hubs of either of those respectable cities, but a city nonetheless. When German locals would proudly ask me why I’d chosen their neck of the woods, I would unwittingly most often reply with, “Well, girlfriend is from here so it makes sense I guess.” Ok, yes I moved for love but that’s a different story altogether.

Since I was 17 years old, I’d often dreamed of separating my life into geographical chapters. In my head it would read: Finish high school and university in Perth, live abroad in France or Germany for a year, return to Perth to figure it all out, then perhaps look to Sydney or New York to kick-start my career.

The idea of spending an allocated amount of time in a foreign place had me excited, if not only the thought of learning a second language. For so long, attending language class by day and serving cocktails into the comfortable south coast French nights was my calling. If I’m really honest, just about any job would have been fine, all that mattered was being able to experience the world. And wasn’t the world something worth experiencing.

trump cocktails
Drink This Tonight

A boys trip through Europe’s hottest spots in 2015 with three of my closest mates convinced me that I had to return, and desperately sooner than later. Exactly one year on, I did return. The result of this trip was the exact reason I chose Hanover over a number of metropolises previously mentioned. This reason’s name was Claire.

Ironically, Claire was considered a French name in Europe, though I was most certainly not in France. I had always felt compelled to learn a second language, however lacked the inspirational or practical standpoint from which to pursue it. When Europeans ask us ashamed English natives why we only speak one language, many may not have the ammunition to respond in a manner that does NOT prompt a follow up question. I reckon I’ve got it figured out.

It’s no secret that many young central European youths and the educated middle-aged bracket can converse in, or at least understand a fair amount of English, but why can’t most of us reciprocate? Are we just lazy, arrogant, self-righteous white conqueror attitude holders that would rather the world bows to us than even learn one word of these other mother tongues? Settle down mate, I wouldn’t necessarily go that far… Uhh, let’s consider this practically first…

As Australians, citizens of an isolated island nation,  we are most closely surrounded by countries portraying Asian cultures, with languages and alphabets too specific to teach on a broad scale. Chinese Mandarin, too difficult. Japanese, again difficult and specific, Indonesian, not powerful enough trading partners and too tiny a nation…and so on. Had these nations held alphabets similar to that of English, we would be much more willing to push this in schools. Many European languages such as Italian, French, German and Spanish contain many similarities in alphabets and thus make English as a universal language justifiable. So why then don’t we as Australians or New Zealanders in particular invest in learning these? Simple. Those countries are too far away.


If I was to study Italian for 3-4 years (which I tried) in the hope of one day backpacking through the west coast of Italy just to be able to order a cappuccino with an accent, why even bother? The only justifiable cases in my mind are for those looking to live abroad, work abroad, for family reasons, or trade/business opportunities. In the scheme of things, this is too difficult to apply to the majority. When you also consider that most of the world’s largest media industries already project English as the almighty medium for entertainment, what choice do we have? If you’ve noticed that a portion of this justification applies mostly to Australians, you’d be right. All other English native countries can form their own defense. Good luck!

I was only previously exposed to the German language through biased WWII movies and mocking pop-culture references. If one was to consider both French and German languages as rivals in the boxing ring, French was the romantic fighter whose charm oozed charisma and emotion. On the opposite corner waited the stern, strong enforcer who invariably knew how to win, and would take no prisoners doing so. Naturally, to many including myself, the German language would be considered harsh and slightly aggressive. But I had made a promise to Claire that if I was to live with her in Germany, I would give it a damn good shot.

german plane

Upon leaving the airport and heading for her apartment, the ever present rain was on full display, however this was no deterrent. This, was the beginning of an adventure I’d waited so long to embark on. A cultural and linguistic maze that I had studied and prepared for. And I had my translator by my side. Boy did I need her!


Job Hunter: One Man’s Quest for A Purposeful Life

Do you have a passion for great customer service and a can-do attitude? We are seeking experienced personnel with excellent skills and flexibility to work in a fast-paced, rewarding role. Does this sound like you? Apply within!


Yes yes blah blah sure I think so.. do I? Uhh yeah that could me. (If I say yes, can I start earning cash soon?)


Anyone finding themselves applying for hospitality/casual employment opportunities has no doubt come across this absolute cliche of a job advertisement. Do they get this out of the “Recruiting Young Employees for Minimum Wage” handbook?

I guess I would instead use my own analogy I call, “The Fisherman” to describe the position of a young job seeker:

The optimistic fisherman awakens prior to the crack of dawn, gathers his equipment and humble fishing vessel before setting out on a quest to encounter his sought after catch. He prepares himself to the best of his ability, perhaps armed with an assortment of tackle, rods and hooks to suit his environment. Although he may possess the necessary skills, knowledge and experience to catch the fish he seeks, it really is up to chance as to whether or not he strikes gold. Is he in the right bay, at the right time, on the right day? Sometimes, he dangles his rod amidst the ripples of the ocean for 10 minutes and is fortunate enough not to require a minute more. Other days, he waits from 8am to 4pm and doesn’t get even a single bite. Such is the wrath of the ocean. Such is the wrath of the employment market. Bullish job seekers apply for job after job, often with an impressive array of previous roles and positions. The fisherman’s fight to reel in the fish once it bites and hooks is his interview for the job. Does the fish believe he has the ability to be caught by the man? Considering seasonality, number of fisherman in the bay, skill and experience, the fisherman will always require a degree of fortune when seeking his prized catch.

fish catch jobs

Coming back from overseas with essentially no income and dwindling funds in my collection of modest bank accounts, I find myself on a pursuit with the only acceptable outcome being the acquisition of a job.

I’ve already done the equivalent to girl scouts knocking on doors to sell cookies, that is, wandering around restaurant and bar strips holding copies of my resume in a nice, shiny folder (pretending of course that each establishment I enter is the only one I will apply to work at). That is way too exhausting, repetitive, somewhat intimidating, as well as often a complete waste of time…until you get a call for an interview, but whatever. I suppose those kinds of businesses are typically smaller in staff and size, and are much more likely to hire a desperate job seeker when at least somebody that works there has actually seen their face.

duck jobs

THIS TIME, I have been much less inclined to do that as I’ve been on the look out for less food and beverage related positions, and more ‘I’ll work any hour of the day for decent pay if you’ll hire me’ ones. Those being at airports, hotels, night-fill at supermarkets… I don’t mind being customer facing, just not for tedious roles with average hourly wages and unstable rostered shifts. I JUST NEED DAT MULLAH!

Another thing that really peeves me off is the ‘We’ll inform you of your application status as soon as possible’ statement. You know, they tell you that an email will be sent to you in 2-3 days regarding your success or failure in obtaining an interview. Do I want the email? Well I’d rather receive it in the promised 2-3 days if I don’t get a call back. However, not getting the email leaves me with the hope that my name is in contention for the job, in which case, I’m happy to wait in hope for another week with the odd chance that one of your recruitment members has actually viewed, maybe even recommended me! But that’s just wishful thinking of course. I’ll take the rejection email to go, thanks.

spongebob job reply

So… I guess what I’m saying is: Anybody reading this in the Perth Metro Area, please give me a job!!

Oh but rather one that doesn’t involve wiping old people’s arses, cancelled shifts within an hour of work, being sent home because it’s raining, minimal parking or public transport options, unfriendly staff, an excessive amount of conscious thought…

Uhh yeah so really anything available I’ll take, k thanks.


Landing My First Desk Sentence

Just like pretty much every other university student, if you want to have fun on weekends (drink your life away), and pay for rent, food, and all the essentials necessary for survival… you’re going to need a part-time job. Post-university graduation and 4 months into the wilderness that is graduate life, minus full-time employment, life was… in essence, pretty frickin’ easy.  I worked at my cushy sandwich artist gig at Subway (the only form of art I can think of that devalues once the artist is deceased), as well ushering on weekends at the football. No, I was not an R&B superstar performing weekly half-time shows at my local sports stadium.

Before we delve into the origins of landing my first full-time office job, let’s quickly recap the situation.

  • 20 years old.
  • 4 months after university graduation (gained “real world” entry).
  • Already completed numerous internships and networking groups supposedly assisting with gaining a job I actually want… which may or may not exist.
  • Sent an identical job-seeking email out to +30 marketing firms in my city and often forgetting to change the appropriate recipient’s name before sending. Unsuccessful.
  • Still positive, but realistic at this point.

jobs chapelle

Ok, now that we’re up to speed with the reality that nobody ever prepares you for, being an educated, white male with no full-time job prospects, let’s move on shall we.

For me, the difference between adding to Australia’s unemployment rate and not being recognised by the government as being unemployed, was sandwiches and football.

Fun fact:

For those of you that never took high school economics, the definition of being unemployed in this nation is basically:

  • Being willing and able to work
  • 15 years of age and above
  • Not working more than one hour in a given week
  • Have actively looked for work in the four weeks prior to said week

So, let’s actually get into it this time.

It was one of the final regular season games of football on this particular Sunday afternoon. As per usual, I was busy directing people to their seats  until the opening 5 minutes of the game, and then proceeded to, essentially get paid to watch football and look important while doing so.

Not surprisingly, the sectional food outlets overflowed with hungry patrons, all fully aware of the chaos sparked by half time breaks. Often, out of the willingness of my heart (spite for exceedingly long food queues congesting MY walkways), I would stand beside these lines to create some sort of structure and order to ease the process. This was not specifically outlined in my job criteria, it should be noted.

Amidst the panicked and desperate urge to purchase food and return to his seat for the game, one man takes a look at the line, looks at the end of the line, re-focuses his vision to the front of the line, then begins to sneak and bury himself near the front as if borrowing Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak. Either he didn’t think I, or anyone else would notice this, or he just didn’t give a @*%$. I wouldn’t be fully aware of which of the two it was until a fair time later. Eager to avenge my food soldiers and condemn this man to the back of the queue, I approached him, “Excuse me sir, there’s actually a line to purchase food here,” as if this was not glaringly obvious.


I assumed the deed was done. The man, stocky, short and flying solo on his quest for premature service then walked over to me, “Sorry mate, I didn’t realise,” he replied with a sly grin. From there, he continued to inquire about my current job status, university education and opinion of the game at hand. Sometime during the riveting 10-15 minutes of describing what I studied and where I had currently found myself, I heard the following words leave his mouth, “I’m looking to put my business on steroids, maybe you can give me a hand with the marketing side of things. I could use someone with your skills in my business.” Whether it was the mention of steroidal use in a business sense, or the offer of a job, I had no choice but to keep paying attention to the man. He left me his name, number and told me to call him. I did a week later, came in for an interview and got the job. Got a job. Worked full-time. Earned an adult’s wage. Became an adult.

gettig a job.jpg

Whether I would go on to love and cherish the role is a different matter, as this taught me many challenging things about myself and business. It was a marketing role at a small financial planning firm. It wasn’t what I expected, but it was valuable experience.

18 months later, I threw in the towel with the feeling that it was time to pursue other things. One golden nugget of advice I would provide to young people looking to work is that it is of the utmost importance to project the most respectable and optimal version of yourself. Whether this be working or studying in a personable environment, or simply in a public setting. You never know, someone might just offer to write a chapter in your life.




Suburban Youth Hostel

“Seems like it’s only cleaned once a month. Staff are friendly. Minimum of activities in hostel and surrounding area is not ideal. Have to catch a bus to the city or any main sights. Was a comfortable stay and bathroom/toilet facilities maintained. I enjoyed my experience but probably wouldn’t come back.” 6/10

I imagine the above is the kind of thing you’d find written about my house at the moment, if you were to see it listed on (Kudos to the reviewer for half-decent spelling and grammar).

So I’ve been living alone for almost 3 weeks now, as my only other housemate, my dad, has jet-setted off to Europe for a month. Where mature-aged kids get a bad wrap is when their parents go away, thinking their children can  barely survive a week without them. Can he cook for himself? Can he clean my goddamn house for once? If I come back and those weeds are taller than Lebron James, he’s got something coming… Or at least, I can see my dad posing these questions to himself with at least 80% sincerity. Thanks for the vote of confidence Dad… The interesting thing about humans is that we often don’t choose to act, unless it is absolutely necessary.

I’m sure you’ve seen those movies where the family is dining at a restaurant, the unfortunate grandpa chokes on a pea, desperately hoping that somebody has the skill or willingness to pull the Heimlich on him. Usually people stand around, waiting, praying that one person in their vicinity has enough of a hero-complex to save a life. Now, imagine it was just you and the pea-choker in a room by yourselves. If you didn’t act, guess who gets the blame for not puckering up the courage to extend Grandpa’s life another 5 years? Well you see my point. I’ve lived in a house and grown up with people around all my life, understand the basics of photosynthesis, have access to an unlimited supply of celebrity cooking shows and YouTube tutorials, and have seen where my dad keeps the cleaning spray… Guys, I got this.


Zach’s June Meal Plan

Day 1.
Breakfast: Cereal
Lunch: Hotdogs
Dinner: Mie Goreng Noodles

Day 2.
Breakfast: Toast with Nutella
Lunch: Pasta with cheese
Dinner: Pasta with cheese leftovers

Day 3.
Breakfast: Cereal
Lunch: Hotdogs
Dinner: Mie Goreng Noodles AND a can of baked beans

eating prep
Swim Bike Mom

*For those of you wondering if I can see my feet from a standing position, yes, yes I can. (A gym membership is like a substitute for your daily consumption of fruit and vegetables. Please don’t tell my doctor that).

Anyway, getting back to the hostel analogy… My dad actually keeps the house in pretty good shape. (Renting means the house looks spotless and IKEA-like at remarkably consistent junctures every 3 months). Although, he is constantly telling me I live in a hotel, what with the supposed lack of assistance I provide in key living criteria.
Joke’s on him though:
– I’m still alive,
– Haven’t left the gas on overnight since last week,
– The weeds are only at Lebron High School Freshman height (You’ve gotta be more specific with your Lebron comparisons if you’re gonna catch me out, Dad).

But it’s like that boss that only sees your faults or when you’re that 2 minutes late for work once a fortnight, he only notices these things and nothing else. Sure I forgot to unpack the dishwasher..again, but what about your coffee mug that’s been on the table for 3 days? Order leads to oblivion until there is disorder.

futurama fry.jpg

With 7 days of solo living remaining, here’s to a pleasant stay, hot running water and unobtrusive neighbours. If you don’t hear from me again, I’ve probably drowned in my own filth.