Woroni TV wants to hear the best zingers you’ve been subjected to when on the dating scene for an upcoming video ‘Weird Sh*t People Say on Dates’! If you’ve heard anything great, hella cute, random or one-liners which you think would make students gag enter it below ??????????????????????
Woroni Editor
‘We need to have an argument.’
‘Hmm?’
‘An argument.’ She does that thing where she sighs at herself, blinks a few times towards the distance, searches, decides, yes, those are the words that she will say: ‘A fundamental disagreement. A difference of opinion. I say something, you say something else, we raise our voices, and then there’s a difference of opinion and then maybe we agree to disagree.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ He chews on nothing.
‘I’m serious. Before tomorrow. Before midnight, hopefully. That is tomorrow. Okay, well the sun’s already set. How about before ten? No, that’s too close. Eleven. We’ll aim for before eleven.’
‘Oh, I agree.’
‘Good.’
‘Before eleven. That’s good. Then we can get eight hours of sleep if we sleep at eleven-thirty.’
‘Yes, but at the same time I need you to stop doing that.’
‘Doing what? Eight hours is recommended by the majority of medical professionals. Maybe seven, now that we’re getting older-‘
‘Yes, dear.’
‘Can you call me that yet?’
‘I like calling you that. Makes me feel prepared. So it’s not too strange when I have to formally start doing it tomorrow. Take it as practice.’ She runs her hand along his arm. Her fingers feel brittle, delicate, like shards of melting ice. He feels strong.
‘Okay.’
‘But I need you to stop agreeing. Just, before eleven. We need to have an argument.’
‘But what are we going to argue about?’
‘I don’t know. I was hoping you’d think of something.’
‘What about, what about…’ He isn’t going to think of something, and she knows it. Maybe this is what they should argue about. She settles for something else.
‘Politics. People always disagree about politics.’
‘Okay, okay. Well um, I voted yes. Yes, that’s what I did. Of course. How did you vote?’
‘I said yes too.’
‘What do you think of the current Prime Minister?’
‘Margarine.’
‘What?’
‘Well, he kind of looks like butter, but you know it’s not when you taste it.’
‘Oh. That makes sense. Did you know that margarine is actually black without colouring?’ He used to work in a margarine factory.
‘Yes. You’ve told me, dear.’ She called him dear again. Practice, that was what it was, he reminded himself.
‘But so is the other one. The opposition leader.’
‘Oh, of course. I guess there’s nothing worth disagreeing about. It’s all the same whichever way you take it.’
‘Okay, okay. What if we – like a debate.’ He had done debating in high school. They had lost the regional semi-finals. He remembers the feeling of wanting to intensely squeeze something in his hand that he got when the adjudicator told his team they’d lost, and the acrylic smell of the table. ‘Like, I take one side, you take another.’
‘This could work. So I can be Weet-Bix. And you can be muesli.’
‘Do you want to start?’
‘No, after you.’
‘Okay. I am far, far more varied. You’re a brick of wheat and your most interesting flavour is the milk you’re paired with. Sometimes people pour Milo over you because they’ve realised how bland you are and they’ve had enough. Sometimes honey. They poured milk and honey over people as torture in Ancient Egypt until their victims drowned in their own vomit and faeces and they do the same to you, this is because you are so bland that they should do the same as you. Now you go.’ She had studied Archaeology in university, which he thought was very attractive.
‘Wow. Okay well let me first communicate my respect and congratulations to you. There was a formal way of doing this in high school, but I’ve forgotten so I’ll move on. You are muesli. I am Weet-Bix. Now, you have said many things that I am. Let me continue. I am utilitarian. I am simple. Above all I am Australian, and I am the breakfast of champions. There are many types of muesli and many ways of eating those many types. But I am simply Weet-Bix. Milo, honey, yes, but underneath, I am the same. I am singular, I am unified, I have direction and I am purposeful. Everyone knows who I am. Those who do not subscribe to me only reinforce my dominance as they confirm that they are the exceptions to the rule. I am the rule. Now, to you. You are many, you are multiplicity, you are legion. Barley connected. Your diversity will tear you apart. Soon there will be in-fighting from your multi-polarity. Nuts, no nuts. Sultanas, no sultanas. Bran, no bran. Each one of your components is merely waiting, biding their time to establish their superiority. But I am one. I am, and always have been. This is why you are inferior. Thank you.’
‘Okay. Do you want to have a rebuttal round?’
‘No. Formally, I think we’re a bit messy. It’s okay.’
‘I don’t think that was an argument.’
‘You’re right.’
‘It’s almost ten thirty.’
‘We’re running out of time.’
‘Tomorrow we’ll be married.’
‘Yes, but we need to argue first, dear.’
‘See, it’s good practice, isn’t it? Soon it will feel normal. If we let it seep into our vocabulary now it will only make the transition easier.’
‘Yes, but you’re still right. We need to argue first. We’ve never done it before.’ He drums his fingers against his thigh. They are like the rapid presses of a stamping machine. It is no longer almost ten thirty because it is now ten thirty.
‘I am worried though.’
‘You suggested it.’
‘And I hold by it. But now that I’ve thought about it for a bit – what if we start something? Something that sits away, but then boils, grows, comes up again in a few months, something we can’t just share, and it puts itself there, every day, in, and out, whenever I see you, I see it, there walking on its own two legs, forming a mind of its own, babbling and speaking, this disagreement, placing itself in the middle of the house and marking it like it’s all its own and, oh… maybe it wasn’t a good idea. Maybe we should wait until afterwards. Until it comes organically. I was talking to Linda before, and couples are having disagreements later and later in their lives. Maybe it’s just best for it to happen, maybe when we’re not even trying.’
‘It’s okay. We still have more than twenty minutes. We can do it now. I won’t let that happen.’ He looks at her, expecting her eyes.
‘I know. I think I know. I guess what I’m trying to say is… did you bring protection?’
He sees the clock flash as it changes to ten thirty-three.
Jeremy Tsuei
“Is it weird to talk with your reflection?” I guess not. With growing age, we come across several challenges and many unanswered questions about our future. The play Fading, directed by Katie Cawthorne and written by Laura Lethlean, aptly presents before us the turmoil of emotions that an individual experience when they turn 18 years of age. It is that time of life where you feel the daunting pressure of adulthood. As the moments from childhood begin to fade away, one begins to realise the expectations and the choices that come with adulthood.
Left – Right (back row): Elektra Spencer, Jett Chudleigh, Aram Geleris, (standing), Alex Castello Left – Right (front row): Jemma Collins, Yarno Rohling, Jamie Johnston, Taylor Geoffroy
On Wednesday night, I had the pleasure of being in the audience for Fading presented by the Canberra Youth Theatre at the Courtyard Studio. It was a delightful experience altogether. The opening imagery of the cast in “plaid shirts and jeans”, lamenting about the pressure that they are currently experiencing in their lives, sets the serious and solemn mood of the play. Laura’s writing is wistful and full of dream-like imagery. I was majorly taken aback by the powerful performance of the cast, which consisted of eight individual characters. As this group of people cross the line of childhood and step into being an adult, like butterflies from a cocoon, they have to maintain and balance their own bank of water and not drown under the pressure of expectations and choices they have to make in life.
Fading recreates the different dreams and thoughts that a child has: honest, truthful and innocent, and suddenly transforms into the chaos of adulthood. At certain time the play takes a satirical tone, with sudden spurts of laughter when the characters even go on an elaborate ‘bear-hunt’. The play even mocks the people who are “so-called perfect at work” and “know what they are doing in life”. Often in life, we begin to compare ourselves to our friends and co-workers and pretend to be exactly “what the society expects of us” and often forget our own voice in this crowd. The play recreates these moments of life, where an individual is unsure of what they want to achieve in life, and often drown under the burden of such pressure.
The stage was small, and simply had a swing hanging from the top. It was utilised at several times in the play to recreate the nostalgia of childhood. Apart from the impactful performance of the cast, the music used aided in recreating this dreaminess and romanticising of childhood memories along with the chaotic state of adult age. Particularly, the song ‘Green Light’ by Lorde was featured in the play to highlight the pop-culture of today’s generation. The sudden outburst of the cast dancing to the tune of the ‘Green Light’, creates a disc-atmosphere that just makes you want to dance. The play touches every single aspect of the thoughts and emotions that an individual experiences as they transition from a child to an adult. Among all these chaos of making the right career decisions, choosing the right path in life and working hard to reach the target without wasting time, we often forget to listen to ourselves, our own voice, our dreams and passions.
Left – Right: Jemma Collins, Jamie Johnston, Elektra Spencer
Fading truthfully presents these emotions before the audience – the pressure that one feels during adulthood. I thoroughly enjoyed the whole 90 minutes of the play. In my opinion, Fading perfectly captures the turmoil of emotions and pressure that one feels growing up as young adults. It is an apt and complex production that presents the audience with the different flavours of life, the transition from a child into an adult with satire and humour.
Soumyadeep Sengupta
So I’d just finished a day of volunteering with kids-
Yeah, I work(ed) with kids. Volunteering too. I’ll show off while I can, ‘cos I’ll need it.
-and, you know. I’d crashed at home: had a ten-minute nap and a tetrapack of something with ‘liquid breakfast’ on the side – then, well. I’m obliged to go to the gym a few times per week, aren’t I?-
Oh yeah, I gym too. Look at me.
-So I’m in my car, off to campus in the holidays, still wearing my (very) colourful volunteering shirt, wondering if any of the PTs I know will be there, whether I’ll be home before seven p.m.-
I mean, not technically my car, but we’ll say it was my car.
-and then this horrible song comes along in my shuffle. Maybe only horrible in retrospect now, but anyway, this compilation album – underdeveloped, overproduced, saccharine lyrics amalgamation, telling me something about living a happy life with a loved one or whatever and, ugh, I am not. Feeling. It.
Up a little circular ramp, and I’m greeted by a smattering of red taillights – it’s that time of the day. Usually this would be when I’d crank my music up and start headbanging, but – no, not this time.
So I stop. I’ve stopped. In a 70 zone, I’ve stopped. I’m stopped.
Go. Stop. Go. Stop.
Go.
And maybe this one’s it. Up to 70, almost at my destination (not really), the song’s almost over, second gear, third gear, and—
The song stops because the aux chord has been jerked out my phone. My heart stops because I pressed on the footbrake too late and the whole car’s shaken but I’m stopped again. In the silence that I wouldn’t have minded not so long ago, you would’ve been able to hear my gut drop.
Two syllables, and there goes my PG rating for the day’s events.
And in Road Ready we were meant to be talking about collisions rather than accidents because accidents suggests that no one was at fault, so did that mean this collision was my fault?
But now I’m driving off to the side of the road, so I guess at least the car might be okay?
Probably won’t be able to get to the gym though. And might not be home before seven pm.
And what is that smell? It’s as crap as the song was. I’ve smelt it before. Although it wasn’t so thick last time. And oh boy I’ve stepped out of the car and the front grille’s become – well, what has it become? I used to think cars had little (or rather, huge) faces, especially this one, since it’s been in the family for twelve years or so now. I guess this is a disfigured face. Disfigured because it’d taken a towbar to the nose. I look to the front, and the car ahead looks kind of okay. Crap.
But they were the nicest people I could have crashed into. The guy two cars in front was fine but he even stopped to help us. We traded names and numbers like a proper group of new friends. And my dad, who Ubered over about an hour afterwards, snagged a picture of me sitting in one of the camp chairs we had in the car, miserable in my (very) colourful volunteering shirt next to my – well, his – disfigured face of a car, and he never fails to bring that one up on his phone whenever the conversation with friends turns to my driving.
So yeah, there’s my memory. P-plater life, uni life, life in general, I suppose. Shit happens, y’all.
Jeremy wrote off the old family car. He has only had one other accident since.
Jeremy Tsuei