Friday, 17 August 2018

I Accidentally Sold My Favourite Cowboy Boots For $33.

I listed a pair of my cowboy boots up for sale on a facebook group for $40 but I meant to put $140. Didn't realise my error until I was inundated, swarmed with YES PLS! SOLD! I CAN COME TO YOU RIGHT NOW? Plus quite a few dodgy DM's saying they'd pay more.

I thought what the hell is going on .... ooooohhhh shit. See I have this thing where if I really want a new pair of cowboy boots I have to sell a pair I already own except you know - NOT SELL THEM FOR FORTY BUCKS.

For some inexplicable reason I stood by my sale. I could easily have just said "Sold, sorry" and nobody would have known except me except I live with as much integrity as I very can .. it's integral. And it just feels good. So this chick (nervously) rang and said she was on her way over after getting the money out of the bank. She was the very first person to respond to the ad. I said $40, so she was coming over with $40. I wanted to cancel so bad! These boots have history. A lot happened when I was wearing these boots.

But I couldn't cancel, just couldn't do it to her. She sounded so excited ... even though these boots are the most expensive boots out of any I owned and the cost of postage from America to Australia basically doubled the price. I remember the day they got delivered to me by a courier back in 2014 and I was so defeated by my brothers suicide a few months beforehand that I didn't even open the package for a week until one of my sons said mum you gonna open these? I let him open them and just holy shit they were special.

I instantly named them my Poetry Performing Boots and at that point I hadn't even written a slam yet let alone perform one. But I did perform in them and I did it really well. Considering.

                Performing "Strong Bones" at the 2014 Australian Poetry Slam NSW Final

       Performing "Fuck That Tupperware" at the 2015 Imperfect Womens Conference, Brisbane.

They were magic boots, these grieving redemptive slammin' stompy brown and aqua babies. And I was letting them go for a song. WWHHHYYYYY?? Why? Because when the lady came to pick them up she told me she was going to get MARRIED in these boots. I teared up and hugged her and told her how special they were and now she was going to make them even MORE special. I told her I accidentally wrote $40 instead of $140. She told me she might base her entire wedding colour theme around these boots. I told her it was a sign, they were MEANT to go to her and she agreed and when she was digging around in the coin section of her purse I asked her how much did she have so far - she said $33 and I said that's cool, she can have them for thirty three bucks. She hugged me so hard and we talked for a bit and then she left.

I stood there on my front verandah thinking about how 33 is a special number, it's the age my brother was when he died. Last year I had one hell of a terrible scary nervous breakdown when I was in Glasgow. Went for a walk one night (wearing these boots) and found myself in a casino. Do you casino? I do NOT casino. It's boring.

I was at the roulette wheel and so paranoid and nervous I immediately had to leave ...  so put all the rest of my money on number 33. Everyone's like WHOAAA BIG SPENDER!! I wasn't even watching when the ball came to a stop and there was this massive commotion and people were congratulating me.

The ball had landed on 33.

I said "Oh my god I don't even PLAY blackjack!" And someone said it's not blackjack it's roulette. The manager was so cranky that I'd won he checked my passport three times. He asked what I was drinking (coke) .. he tried to get me to stay but I was OUTTA there.

With the money I was able to buy an emergency ticket home - the relief! Thank GOD I was able to get my bipolar broken self the hell out of Scotland.

So thats the story of the boots. Obviously they were born to be special. Life's pretty magical if you let it.

(I haven't bought another pair yet but when I do, imagine where they'll take me?)

Tuesday, 24 July 2018

“Have a great day boys and remember: don’t rape any women!”

On the weekend my ten-year old son and I were walking down the street and I noticed him glaring and looking back at a man who’d walked past us.

What’s up mate?”
“That guy was PERVING AT YOU.”

He said it really loudly so the guy would hear him. Mr Perver was about 50 years old so basically what we have here is a young child calling a much older male out on his behaviour. I’m so proud of my son .. proud of ALL of my sons because here’s the thing: through all this public discourse about men’s violence towards women, a lot of the time the conversation ends with “.. we need to teach our sons not to rape.”

Ok so .. how do we do that? 

I can only go on the way I’ve brought my sons up .. I’ve called bullshit on everything since day dot. A tv ad comes on with a woman sexily biting into an ice cream cone and I’ve pointed it out. “Hey guys see her pout and skimpy clothes .. the whole ad is designed for the woman to act all ridiculously sexual to get you to buy the ice cream.”

Whenever any inappropriate magazines featuring women wearing lingerie or a bikini on the cover: straight to the recycling bin.

Somebody gave my then-eight year old son a pack of cards featuring topless females: in the BIN. (Seriously!?)

I’m outspoken and cranky about a lot of things in the world, which means my sons have grown up with me giving a running commentary on anything. I’ve told all of them that one day they’ll be at parties and if there’s drunk girls there .. to be the guy who makes sure the girls get home safely. That other guys might want to take advantage of the girls in that state. All of my sons nodding furiously. “Of course, mum!”

There’s only a limited time when our children are growing up to impart our knowledge and wisdom into them. I’ve used every available opportunity I can to teach my boys to have respect for women. Told them (and showed them) that women are STRONG. We’re not less-than. We’re not the weaker sex. As they’ve gotten older and started dating it’s been heartening when they’ve told me about a new girlfriend because they’ve often said: “Actually, she’s a lot like you!” (Silent fistpump.)

In no way am I anti-male .. how could I be? All of my sons are sensitive, empathetic, caring, funny and bright young men. The reasons behind my brothers suicide taught me that the patriarchy damages men, too. There’s a LOT of expectations for males - to be the provider, don’t admit weakness, earn money, be a MAN. 

I was taking about this to my 16 year old son yesterday, his views and opinions were such a welcome relief. He thinks the current state of music has a lot to answer for. A lot of it is all “Get bitches make money.” .. with video clips to match. The vacuous and empty lyrics of hip-hop nowadays makes me despair .. it’s supposed to mean something! I believe if you’re an artist of any kind and you have a fan base or following or platform .. you have to use it wisely.

Lately I’ve been despondent and scared at the relentless violence, murders and rapes of women. Is it getting worse? It seems to be everywhere .. and anywhere. I just don’t know.

What I do know is that on the weekend a young boy defended his mums honour as she was being leered at while walking down the street. *That* makes me so, so proud. It gives me hope for our future. 

Thursday, 21 June 2018

The World is Desperately Hurting, Traumatised and Fucked Up.

We need our artists - it’s an emergency. We need the kind of people who always save the world right in the nick of time, by giving us hope.

We need our painters and writers and sculptors. Knitters and dreamers and gardeners and volunteers and nurses and teachers. We need our first responders .. we need people who give to other people. We need creators of all kinds, which is everybody. I once wrote a slam-poem that ended with the words:

“If there is a god
And he is a creator
Who made us in his image ..
That means we are creators
And if that dude’s a prophet then man,
You’re a prophet too.”

It’s time for me to get back to slams. I’ve known it for a while and my mum said it to me just the other day. I can do this again now .. but more. I’m writing big again now. Why?

Because I cleaned my bedroom.

I have a clean, uncluttered yet slightly askew, opulent, fancy, soothing bedroom for the first time in .... ever. EVER. This means everything. I just found out the Katoomba Heat for the Australian Poetry Slam is on at the library tonight and if you were allowed props I’d be performing with bells on.
... and I haven’t even written the piece I’ll be performing tonight. So far it’s just an idea embryo, so fragile. I must handle her with care as I bring her to life.

That’s what I do - I bring words to life. Make them dance, and show us their magic.

I’ve  never done this but I’m doing it now fuck it: I can write. It was in me all along .. I’ve won awards and competitions and received praise from high but what if I told you I haven’t even tried yet? I write my way into people’s souls and hearts. I put God in the machine .. I’ve been in the computer for over a decade now, since before the internet turned into a monster. It’s terrifying but I stay here on purpose, it needs people like me. It needs ME. I had to sort through a lot of Edens to get to this Eden. So many incarnations of ourselves we could be. Years ago I’d skite that I was “the best version of myself I could be.” Which was probably true it’s just that I didn’t realise I could fall so fast and so hard.

When you read me I don’t use breadcrumbs so you can find me I use pieces of my Soul. My hair is fucking fire. When you read me you often recognise yourself. Or you learn a truth - or you feel something you can’t quite name. In a lot of ways it’s got nothing to do with me - the statue was there all along he just carved it out from the block of marble. If you’re bold and righteous and tell the truth? Kaboom.

Some blog posts I’ve written have stopped people from killing themselves that day and I often hope and wonder if they’re still alive.

Nobody cut a path for me. I’m one of the ones who cuts the path. I’ve always been a wolf foundling. Wild. There’s something terribly wrong with me which according to Newton means there’s something terrible right with me. I’ve gotten through things that would have killed most others years ago. I’m stronger than any man I’ve ever met .. even my hair is fire. When my light shines it shines so bright it shines darkness straight out of people standing in front of me. But not all because the darkest dark swallows the lightest light. It’s been a battle, I won, now let’s keep moving we got shut to do before we sleep.

You with me? Sometimes I lose people, sorry. (The people in the psych wards were always with me. They understood everything .. I understood them. Beautiful shiny broken people. Sticky tape and staplers and blue tak .. whatever it takes to get through.

I’ve wanted to delete this blog so many times until I’ve realised it wasn’t my blog I wanted to delete. I wanted to delete ME. I’m glad I didn’t delete it, even though it’s embarrassing as shit because I’ve overshared my real and messy and crazy in an airbrushed, carefully coiffed, curated, beige, safe, bullshit fakey fake from fakeland world.
I write things you’re not supposed to write because ... it’s just so satisfying. Shock people out of their safe havens. Heh. I’ve written here about searching three cemeteries in one day to find my stepfathers grave so I could piss on it. I didn’t find it but hey guess what: if I found it now I wouldn’t piss on it! Evolution, baby.

I’ve written about Peaches Geldoffs drug addiction. I’ve written about going to my brothers flat the day after he killed himself and his belongings were either half packed or half unpacked .. guess we’ll never know. I’ve put up photos of my hairy nostrils, tuck shop arms, fat stomach. I wrote about using my nose hair trimmer to trim my chin hair. I google-earthed a photo of the flat in Batemans Bay that my real father died in and put it up on my blog and said “here’s the flat my father drank himself to death in!Did I write here about that copper who wanted to get into my pants so bad he let me hold his Glock? Whoops I’ve written it now mistakes were made. I still want to go do confession with the local catholic priest just to write about it here - it’ll make you laugh. “Bless me Father for I have sinned it has been thirty years since my last confession.” Buckle up while I take YOU to hell for a change, Father.

The love jumps off the computer screen when I write about my sons. You can’t blog about your children when they enter their teens but I was never a mummyblogger anyway I was masquerading all along, often dumbing myself down. I like flying under the radar and I love not being taken seriously.

I don’t know if I’ve written here about accidentally discovering women can have orgasms too but I tell you what, I was 14 and hardly left my bedroom all weekend. All that magic in a secret button.

I’ve led a Big Life which needs to be properly told. I’ve just found out that the book deal I had for my memoir has fallen through. WEEP. I hadn’t even mentioned my book deal here yet because it was early stages and I didn’t want to jinx it! The publishers are SO disappointed, so am I. But I just refuse to be disheartened, right when I’ve found this amazing ledge in life I’ve never reached before. So I’m doing something I hate: asking for help. Can somebody please help me keep moving forward with this? Who knows of a person who knows a person who can hook me up with a book deal? Out of all the Edens I’ve been I’ve never been this kind of an Eden before and I really like who I am. My email is so if somebody could help me get my book out that’d be great. For some reason it’s really important and it’s not for my ego - it’s for other people. Which sounds so fucken wanky but I’ve so many stories .. there’s so many ways we can make it through. And not just gritting our teeth make it through but shedding skin dancing in front of bonfires made it through. My brothers suicide has taken me a long, long time to process. And grieve, and make it through. And I couldn’t save him, I thought I could but I couldn’t. Which means I can’t save anybody else either but Jesus lord if there’s anybody who can be the funnest best most inappropriate cheerleader life coach who swears, vacuums the breadboard and do life a bit wrong then I can.

Holy crap I now have ONE HOUR to write the piece I’m performing tonight. Gotta go, almost at the bridge so how DO I get this shit out?? Dear me I just spent three hours typing this whole post on my phone, my back hurts, I can’t spellcheck it and it won’t let me insert Jack Johnson’s song “The News.” You should google it, very fitting.

Thursday, 31 May 2018

.. So Then God Spaketh: "Let's give the poor bitch bipolar too!"

There's a bipolar tree in my backyard. She goes ok.

Recently she turned a deep crimson red and didn't really know why, she chalked it up to embarrassment at being so different from the other trees. It was when her leaves turned yellow then a crinkly brown then started to fall to the ground when she got really worried and quite mortified.

Why was she so different? Why couldn't she be the same like all the other trees standing tall, evergreen, not changing?

Having bipolar is one of the most terrifying things a person can go through. I think I've always had it, the mania, the terrible lows, the creative frenzies, the feeling of being invincible. Then awful .. all of the adjectives, all of the feelings, all of the time.

Bipolar 2 has the highest rate of suicide than any other mentally problematic issues. (I hate saying mental illness.)

This beautiful guy and his brother are shaping up to be strong mental health advocates. I adore them.

Here's what I wash down the hatch every day: Prozac, Lamotrigine, fish oil, magnesium, vitamin B. Colourful!

The past few months have been pretty bipolary and I just can't write about it as I'm going through it - it scares the shit out of me so it'd probably scare the shit out of people who care.

For me, having bipolar is living in a permanent state of confusion. A hard thing is opening up my eyes in the morning wondering how I'm going to FEEEEL that day. I wish I didn't feel so much, I feel too much. My feeling gland is too enlarged for my liking. Talking about this shit is still embarrassing, still full pf stigma, still silences so many voices out there for fear of being judged. (We judge ourselves the hardest.)

My personal relationships are hard to maintain, a lot of people don't understand the trickery and confusion of bipolar and frankly either do I. How can I explain it to people when I don't even know myself?

The biggest two catchphrases to do with mental health that I utterly abhor:

"Just get help!"
"Mental health awareness."

Awareness my arsehole - we are all pretty much aware at this point. What practical things are happening for people silently suffering? And the "just get help" phrase ... it's hard to get help when there's waiting lists and panic and depression and not being in your right mind. Wonder what the suicide rates are for people waiting to just get help. My brother was booked in to a facility to get help on the day he took his own life far, far away.

Fucking tragedy.

Anyway obviously I'm here, writing, feeling ok. Praise be.

 ... little things like this make me very, very happy. A teeny yellow porcelain rhino candle holder, up on my mantlepiece. When I'm drawing the curtains at night time I light a candle and pop it inside him and it just gives me comfort. Maybe that's the thing - finding comfort whenever and wherever we can, whatever it may be. As long as it's not hurting ourselves or other people. I love the friends in my life because they've stayed with me and are still in my life. I'm a hard person to be friends with but when you got me as a friend you got me for life no returns.

The only mask I wear these days is a facemask for my skin. This guy turned ten last week, double digits. A huge deal. HUGE.

So back to her, standing there in the backyard, full of shame at her fallen leaves. Wishing she was anything but herself .. comparing herself, hating and judging herself.

Yeah she'll be standing there all winter, naked, uncertain, sad, getting rained on, lonely, not knowing what the hell is going on. She doesn't know that she's going to grow back. Greener and beautiful and fresh and new, while all the other trees still have the same old leaves.

She has no idea how magnificent she is and definitely no idea exactly how other people see her because guess what she leaves with her leaves ...

... myriads of different coloured natures confetti, each as varied and opposite and strange and beautiful as her moods and feelings and thoughts.

Pretty cool shit right there,

(Comments off.)

Friday, 6 April 2018

Street Talk: The Icehead And Beau.

I broke up a fight in Katoomba Street because I'm a tough cunt but let me backtrack and tell you the story.

So I was in the waiting room waiting to see my new GP who is actually quite fucking awesome and knows that bipolar and mental health shit IS REAL. I didn't want to be there - I never want to be there when my brain is so broken but it's my only option and I had to be there because it was my only option.

"Get help" they say. Orly?? Getting help is bullshit hard and I'll write about that later when I'm not in the throes of hideous cPTSD and chronic clinical depression and all the other wonderful, wonderful labels.

Anyway I ripped a poster off the wall because it offended me because I'm just that kind of person but I'll write about that in other post. Fuck that poster to hell.

Exhibit A: me waiting in the GP's waiting room getting LEERED AT BY MEN AM I NOT TO OLD FOR THIS SHIT APPARENTLY NOT.

Yeah I was all Eminem on this shit you know how Em wears his cap and then a hoodie over it?

So I go into my appointment, my god I love my GP: referrals, blood tests, advice, tissues when I started crying.

Drove off into Katoomba, down Katoomba Street to see a PUNCH UP taking place. Full-blown punches thrown. I parked down the road, got out of my car, and walked to where the punch-up was because I'm a concerned citizen of the world and yeah I could have gotten hurt but I'm already hurt so what's a bit more hurt. I could sense something very unfair taking place.

In a nutshell: this ice ragey toolbag was throwing punches at the local proprieters of a very nice local Thai food restaurant. I second-guessed myself like "Eden this aint your circus and aint your monkeys" but fuck that. As soon as I saw angry ragehead ice guy go to throw a punch at the female manager? All bets OFF.

I went into chameleon mode and walked up to icehead and his girlfriend, stood in between the punching, turned and asked icehead if he was ok. Why? To gain his trust. To pretend I was one of him. I told him the coppers were coming (they weren't, slow clap for Katoomba police who couldn't be BOTHERED to track me down in October 2013 the day my brother died because you know, probably too hard #donuts)

He replied to me with "FUCKEN GOOKS I'M GONNA COME BACK AND FUCK THEM UP" and I said ok but seriously the police are up the road. He retreated and walked back.

I walked up the street, followed the shellshocked people who were walking back to their restaurant. I walked into the restaurant and they were so scared of me! I asked the woman if she was ok. She was crying. She told me later she thought I was a friend of iceman - told her I wasn't I was just trying to break the fight up because I saw him go in to hit her and I ABHOR VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN. I took off my sunnies, my hoodie, and my hat. I said Beau, I'm way too old for this shit I just wanted to make sure you were ok. She literally collapsed into my arms thanking me, offering me a glass of water, free meal - anything. I said no sweetheart I just saw that there were so many people watching but nobody was doing anything to help. (Memo to people: HELP WHEN YOU CAN.)

I walked out, down to the mental health team in Katoomba showing them my referral to see a psych because I think I need a medication tweak even though I LOATHE pharmaceuticals but I'm desperate at this point I am a barnacle and will not go the way of my brother. They said a referral didn't cut it and fobbed me off to the crisis team phone number who only deal with acute cases and it's not cute because I will NOT end up in a psych ward again, the last time I did a guy with face tattoos scuttled into my room in the middle of the night and stuck his dick into my face but that's not the real issue here.

The real issue here is: help your fellow humans on the planet. Even when it's scary. If I can do it with a raging fucked up brain, then you can too.


Previous Street Talks:

1. Noelene the Young
2. Megan the Mouse
3. Harpal the Australian
4. Darren the Artist
5. Jo the Interesting
6. John the Telstra Guy
7. Michael the Photographer
8. Peg the Lady
9. Jeff the Preacher Man
10. Andres the Cobbler
11. Honey the Prostitute
12. Mark the Masseur
13. You the Blog Reader
14. Jo the Podiatrist
15. Casey the Uni Student
16. Dream the Horse and Carriage Driver
17. Tamas the Hungarian Accordionist
18. The Dignified Trolley Ladies
19. Alex With The Studded Hot Pink Belt
20. Leaf The Fallen
21. Bel Of The Library
22. Jay And His Big Issue
23. Emma The Adult Shop Cashier
24. Teena, Saver Of Dogs
25. The Luna Park Face
26. Gary The Missing
27. Kristen at the Elephant Bean Cafe
28. Uncle Paul
29. Jess The Mama
30. The Two People At The Checkout
31. Alfie The Pourer
32. Breaking The Rules With Captain Starlight!
33. The Woman In Line At The Bakery A Few Weekends Ago
34. Dog The Dog
35. Julia Gillard The Person
36. Nancy The Badass
37. Bruce From The Psych Ward
38. Jeremy The Costumeless
39. The Women in the Morgue
40. The Lady Whose Name I Didn't Quite Catch.
41. Eden
42. William the Worldchanger
43. Thelma, The Best Neighbour That I Never Had.

Thursday, 22 February 2018

My Blog Might Get Deleted Because I'm Writing About Medicinal Cannabis.

My cousin Morgan is the one in the wheelchair:

Behind her from left is her sister Ariel, their dad Steve, and lawyer Robert Daoud from Sydney Criminal Defence Lawyers.

They're outside Penrith Courthouse because my uncle Steve got arrested and charged with cultivating cannabis plants that were being used for medicinal purposes. When the seven police officers raided their property and searched their house they found no scales, no satchel bags, no wads of cash. Because my uncle isn't a drug dealer he's trying to save his daughters life and alleviate their pain. The plants were used to make cannabis oil capsules that Morgan uses as suppositories as she is battling severe Crohns Disease. The fresh leaves of the plants were being used to juice into smoothies, not to get off her face.

Steve is facing huge criminal charges, may go to jail, and has to report for bail every Monday on his way to work in the city because he supports his whole family. He's facing huge legal fees. HUGE. Robert is representing him in court, the next appearance is due soon, this whole thing isn't going away in a hurry. It's beyond stressful.

Morgans sister Ariel has Ulcerative Colitis and spent over a month in hospital last year, she haemorrhaged in the hospital bathroom and the doctors performed emergency surgery on her colon. She nearly died. Morgan has nearly died a few times, she has an ostomy bag.

Her dad Steve is one of the most kind, caring, beautiful men you could ever meet. He made the Blue Mountains Gazette.

Page two, no less. His wife Karen works hard behind the scenes every single day, appealing to politicians, local government, everybody she can think of to gain support. It's really hard and exhausting. Morgan is now without her medicine and the trauma of the police raid sent her spiralling. When the police left that day they were ashen faced because all they found was a sick young woman, and her mother. Morgan vomited as her dad was arrested and taken away to be charged and branded a criminal.

Morgan and Ariel both have to report to Centrelink and their respective jobseekers because why have they not gotten a job yet? I wheeled Morgie in one day and said "Ummm, got any jobs for my cousin?" I helped her fill out the trillion forms to try get her on the Disability Pension but it takes five months for a decision to be made, there's a backlog because of so many people pretending to be so sick they can't work. If Morgan gets denied I will be very, very angry. I already am angry but I must step back and cool it because I don't want to jeopardise anything. I'm the kind of person who will take twenty cannabis plants in pretty pots and set up a stall outside Penrith police station with a sign saying "Get Your Free Medicinal Cannabis Plants Here" just to prove a point. I've been putting off writing this post because I'm scared - the last time I wrote about medicinal cannabis on my Edenland Facebook page  my whole page got taken down and it took days to prove my identity. Ten years of me swearing, putting up nude photos, showing women breastfeeding, blatantly criticising the Australian government about foreign aid after my trips to Africa and India for World Vision - and my page got suspended for writing about plants that are helping save my cousins lives. Seems legit.

I love my cousins. I will do anything for them, they are the little sisters I always wanted, and they are suffering so badly it's criminal.

Their dad is not a criminal, he's desperately trying everything he can to keep them out of pain, and basically keep them alive.

It's scary, and has taken its toll pretty badly. The law has to change. The law is wrong, we will fight this all the way and if Stevie gets sent to jail or anything happens to my cousins I'll go ballistic - that's not a threat it's just who I am.

Morgan is currently in hospital again ... we looked up and that's her ceiling. A piece of it fell down and landed on her bed.

(Obviously I purposely took a photo of the chunk of ceiling next to the no photo zone because I'm me.)

Sometimes when she's in hospital she spends her time with men in beds next to her. Last week I visited her and brought in fans I bought from Bunnings for $15 each because the air conditioning is broken and the room was like a sauna.

There she is - all 37 kilos of her, assembling one of the fans for the patient next to her because Morgan's like that. She cares. It took us about half an hour to assemble one fan and we were laughing so hard because I had to get a plastic knife to screw the screws in and when we finished it was all wobbly but hey, it worked.

We felt bad because there was four patients in the room and we only had three fans. Margie had to lie down after the assembalation (not a word, don't care) of the fans because she was exhausted. Sometimes when she's at home she has to be carried to the bathroom. They took away her medicine so now her options are Endone and other stuff I don't know the names of but they can cause cancer. One of the drugs they gave her made her hair fall out.

It took me about three hours last week to try get her moved to the new gastro ward - I was nice. This isn't the nurses fault - they get abused regularly by patients but not us because we know it's not their fault they're on the frontline and cop the brunt. I told one of the nurses she had really pretty eyelashes (she did) and then I asked who was above the doctors? What is this mysterious "patient flow?" Do I need a secret handshake to get Morgan moved out of the stroke/neuro ward?

Morgie finally asked me to please stop, that it was ok, she didn't want to make a fuss. So I had to drive away back to my house where the ceiling doesn't have mouldy water damage. I shared it to Facebook and people were so lovely, so outraged, and couldn't believe the conditions of that room in Westmead Hospital. Miraculously Morgie sent me a text later saying that she had been moved to the new gastro ward and she even had her own room. She couldn't believe it - she's still there today, she's so grateful.

The squeakiest wheel gets the most grease but you've got to play your cards right and be squeaky in a really lovely, non-shouty, calm way. Lucky I have a gift with words, lucky I'm really polite when I'm pushy. Lucky my two cousins are alive.

Here is what these stunning beautiful girls look like when they were well.

.. and here's what these stunning beautiful girls look like when they are sick (and denied their medicine that grows in the ground.)

I know there's Go Fund Me pages left right and centre these days but I'm actually begging, if you can, to put a few dollars into this to help with this families astronomical legal bills. They are good people, they are my family, and this case is going to be very interesting when it reaches a judge who will hopefully show some compassion.


Morgan's blog is called "The Power Of Me."

New Idea picked up the story about her home getting raided.

So - can anybody help spread this story? A Current Affair, The Project, any news channel, anything? My email is and I'll pass them all on to Morgan and Ariel's mum Karen.

I hope I wrote this post right - I didn't swear once. Gotta go now because my Bipolar 2 is playing up pretty bad lately but that is an invisible embarrassing illness so I'll just shuffle up the street and try get my car pink-slipped and rego'd so I can sell it. Also buy some healthy stuff for dinner tonight because my youngest son is here this week and he's nine but what am I going to do when he's sixteen and doesn't need me anymore ugh. Anyway enough about me .. I much prefer focussing on other people and I hope this court case goes ok and I hope my beautiful cousins get better and I hope the fans Morgan and I assembled are helping the patients stuck in that shithole of a room are helping cool them down.

(Ok I swore once but it's only the "S" word.)

(I turned comments on my blog off because I was getting abused and now I can't turn my comments back on again because I'm not that technologically savvy heh MISTAKES WERE MADE.)

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