So, I mentioned yesterday that I took a staff position at Writer’s Beat. And I didn’t really go into detail about the job description, because at the time it wasn’t really at the forefront of my mind. What has changed? Nothing, actually. Except that I’m staring at seven or eight new poems on the forums, and oh god, THE EFFORT.

Staff members have to critique people’s work. I mean, we don’t have to critique all of it, obviously. That would be impossible, on a daily basis. However, we are expected to regularly critique new work. And so today, it hits me: this is a job. This staffing gig isn’t just something I do, it’s a job, and it’s a lot of work.

Don’t think I wasn’t taking it seriously, because I was. I spent HOURS judging and then scoring the competition entries, worrying about every point I gave or took away. Likewise, I was worried about reacting to people, worried about posting even, stressing about how I was representing the forums now, just WORRYING.

Now I’m done with the worrying, and I’m looking at all of the new posts just begging for my attention, and it is bad. Critiquing is hard, particularly for fiction; it takes time, and concentration. I love helping people, but when I’m trying to write my own stuff, the last thing I want to do is read other people’s work.

That’s why I’ve only written 88 words so far. *nods* Uh huh.

I have some exciting news. As of Friday, the 27th of June, I am officially debt-free. I finally paid off my $3,000 bank loan, and Julian is mine to keep forever. Also, my uncle and aunty’s house is safe. Heh. I can’t even describe just how relieved I am that I paid it off. The entire time, I felt like I had a cloud hanging over me.

A dollar shaped cloud. Ugh.

My other big news is that I was asked to be staff on Writer’s Beat, and I accepted. I’ve been settling into the role, cautiously. Part of my wariness is fear of making a mistake, but I also found some stuff on the staff forums that made me feel.. not betrayed, but mis-informed. I can’t go into it here, but it was unsettling.

I know CLASSIFIED information!

So, other than that, I’ve been relaxing at home. I have some stuff to do; writing for school, and writing for the manual. Mostly though, I want to enjoy my time off. Work ended on Thursday, so I’m officially unemployed; I need to look for another job soon. I’m hoping for two days a week of mindless retail work.

I also really need to buy Grey’s Anatomy, Season Two. Ah, priorities.

So, I finally booked in for my licence test today. My aunty came to see Mum, and decided that it was time for Dwain to get his learners permit, and for me to book in for my driving test. Luckily, the earliest appointment is in September, so I have plenty of time to stress, and practice, and then stress some more.

I found some interesting information regarding Victoria’s licensing system today, at the VicRoads website. Traditionally, you can get your learners permit in Victoria when you turn sixteen. While on your ‘L-plates’, you can’ only drive with a fully licensed driver in the car. Pretty simple; all that is staying the same.

When you turn eighteen, you can take a driving test and – if you pass – get a probationary licence. Traditionally, the only restrictions on ‘P-plater’ drivers was that they weren’t allowed to have any alcohol at ALL in their system. With the addition of a two step ‘P-plate’ program, there are now other restrictions.

The first stage is called P1, and will last for one year. During that time, the following restrictions will apply:

• P1 drivers can only carry one 16 – 21 year old passenger;
• P1 drivers are not allowed to use a mobile phone at all; and
• P1 drivers aren’t allowed to tow, unless it’s for work

The second stage is P2, and will last for the standard three years. The traditional restrictions will still apply.

I admit, I wasn’t happy about the Graduated Licensing System when I first heard about it. According to VicRoads, the aim is to reduce road crashes - a large percentage of which apparently involve probationary licence holders – and they believe driving late at night, or with multiple passengers, are high-risk situations.

I could go on forever about my opinion on this, but I’m going to keep it short. Eighteen year olds like to party. When they get their probationary licence, they like to drive places, to party. And guess what? Often, they carpool. They designate a driver, and everyone goes together. VicRoads says that’s unsafe.

According to them, having more inexperienced drivers, more cars on the road and more temptation to drive drunk – since there won’t be designated drivers – is safer than a P-plater driving with other people in the car. In my opinion, that is completely ridiculous; carpooling is necessary for young drivers.

Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about it; I’m over 21, and go straight to P2.

I woke up this morning - early, to take Dwain to work - and Tiffany was wailing in the kitchen. She sounded like a banshee, so I went out to her to find out what was wrong. She was holding her leg up somewhere around her neck, holding onto her toes with her eyes scrunched shut. There were no tears, just a lot of noise.

“It’s not clean, and Katie knew I couldn’t get the tea towel. Ouch, ow, owwww, it’s not clean! It isn’t clean, Lisa, not clean, not cleaaaaan.”

She wasn’t making any sense, so I asked Stephen what was going on. Apparently she stubbed her toe. Right. Tiffany is a drama queen; Katie may act out and want all the attention, but she doesn’t dramatise situations as well as Tiffany does. So, she’s hopping slightly, holding her toe at neck height, and wailing. It’s. Not. Clean.

I picked up the tea towel, checked her toes and assured her that everything was fine. Then I moved a white bowl from the (precarious) barstool onto the bench and went back to my room. Minutes later, the screaming started up again. Still. Not. Clean. Mum came into my room, holding the white bowl and a tea towel.

On the side of the bowl, there was a raised, off-colour bit of ceramic. The bowl has been like that since we bought it; the bowl is flawed. Mum and I raised our eyebrows and groaned about Tiffany’s OCD like symptoms (at eight, no less), and then she yelled out into the hallway that, “Lisa inspected the bowl, and it’s clean!”

Later on she freaked out because she couldn’t spread the towel out flat on her first try. I think she’s our best bet for carrying on the family crazy.

So, I’ve been absent for a little while. Five days, to be exact, and since I usually blog everyday or every second day, that’s kind of a big deal but since no one is hanging on my every word and waiting for me to post it really doesn’t matter, right? *deep breath* Anyway. I’ll explain while I’ve been away, then we can get on with it.

A couple of months ago, I discovered some really awesome blogs. Like, read every day and have a laugh type blogs. And through those blogs, I found some more blogs, which I also quite liked. And then, just as I was sort of settling into the groove of these shiny NEW blogs, the shit hit the fan, and the blogosphere folded in on itself.

Although none of it affected me personally, seeing the drama unfold made me think. I didn’t post at first, but it was on my mind. People were being attacked, with material that they had posted, the very material that had helped forge the friendships and connections with the bloggers that were now turning on them.

Blogs were closed. Insults were thrown. Relationships were destroyed.

And I know, I’m over here in my little corner of the blogosphere, and I’m not one of the big movers and shakers. I’m not talked about, or really known about at all, and I wasn’t even personally involved, so why would it affect me? The answer is really simple: I was beginning to care about the people who were involved.

As bloggers, we share our stories and our lives freely. We put no limits on who can read about our children, our family or our relationships. We post embarrassing stories, make fun of others, and create friendships through our writing. The recent drama has proven that being so open can, will and does backfire.

In a major explosion and fanning of shit, no less.

So, for the last week, I’ve been thinking about the drama. It has made me look at my blogging differently, but not in the way you might expect. Britt recently posted - in a response to the drama, almost - something along the lines of ‘you get hurt in real life, as well as online’. She’s completely right.

Betrayal, revenge, pettiness, jealousy. Those things - those dark, sneaky and horrible things - are a part of life. They’re human traits, human emotions. And shit happens, doesn’t it? Whether it’s on the internet or during your lunch break at school, shit happens. People lie, or cheat, or break your heart.

Online and off, we survive.

Despite the potential for backlash, I am going to continue being open and honest on my blog. I will continue posting about my life, and I will do so without fear or doubt. It’s not about rights so much. It’s about strength. I know that I am strong enough to defend my online life against potential haters.

And, this week? I will go back to commenting on other people’s blogs.

It would appear that Debbie Adams, the 16 year old who fatally stabbed her cooking teacher back in 1999, is suing New South Wales for giving her access to knives. Granted, she was in a juvenile detention centre for an attack on her mother with a bread knife at the time, but does that give her the right to sue the state?

I despise many things about the world today. I know, I know; I’m only 21, what right do I have to talk about ‘the good old days’? Exactly the same rights as everyone else, as a matter of fact. Just because I was younger back in the good old days - when people took responsibility for their actions - doesn’t mean my opinion is worthless.

As I grew from a toddler to a child, and from child to teen, my mother instilled in me a quality that is apparently a rarity in today’s world: responsibility. Not only responsibility for the things I own, or the people under my care, but responsibility for my own actions, thoughts, reactions and responses. Responsibility for my self.

I have known about consequences since I was very young. It’s all very simple; say I had a toy, and in a fit of rage I threw the toy at the wall. Either the toy broke and it got thrown out, or my mother took the toy away. No matter what consequence followed, my mother made sure I knew that my action or reaction had influenced it.

What Ms. Adams did was wrong; she chose to stab her teacher with a knife while his back was to her, and as a direct result of that she was sent to prison. Regardless of how she got the knife, or what the circumstances were, she was apparently coherent and calm when the incident happened, and so should take full responsibility for it.

Should a juvenile detention centre be allowing the ‘inmates’ to handle sharp knives? Yes, absolutely! They were in a cooking class, learning skills for the outside world; something that could have benefited Ms. Adams in the future. Juvenile detention is not the ‘end of the road’, and programs are run to benefit young people there.

Should they perhaps have been watching her more closely, given that she was in juvenile detention for attacking someone with a knife? Probably, yes! The guards and teachers should have been alert and aware that she could possibly become dangerous. Does that mean the State made her do it? Not in my opinion.

For all we know, the teacher could have turned his back for a split second. Perhaps the guards were distracted, or busy with someone else. Maybe she was waiting for an opportunity, and nothing could have prevented it. Either way, Ms. Adams chose to stab her teacher; the State had nothing to do with it.

As far as I’m concerned, she should deal with the consequences of her actions.

So, I mentioned a while back that during a visit to Centrelink, there was a pregnant woman being disruptive. A few days ago, I had the privilege of riding in the same train carriage as her, on my way to class. And, just to make everything a lot more fun (!), four of her equally disruptive friends were with her.

The five of them were drinking cans of Woodstock, and laying about on the seats; feet all over the fabric, sloshing bourbon on the floor. Charming. As the train pulls up to a station, the pregnant lady spots someone from the corner of her eye. She drags one of the guys out to the platform that connects the carriages.

I should explain the setup, for those of you who have never been on a train in Melbourne before. Most of the train carriages have a door at either end, for access to the other carriages. In between, there are two flimsy chains and a floor that shifts beneath your feet. The total distance between carriages is less than a metre.

So, they run out onto the platform and start yelling at someone on the other side of the station. I couldn’t see him, but they were yelling something along the lines of, “Look at those glasses! Do you think you’re Elvis Presley?” Then they started laughing, and I tried to keep looking out the window as if nothing was going on.

You don’t mess with crazy people.

Later on, three of them (!), including the pregnant lady, huddled out onto the platform for a cigarette. I don’t know how they all fit, to be honest, but they did. By the way, loud disruptive people? Thank you so much for keeping the door open while you smoked, so not only did I freeze, but I also got to taste your secondhand smoke.

Charmed, I’m sure.

All was well for quite some time, after that. I wrote in my notebook, looked out the window and tried not to think about how tired I was, lest I fall asleep before I got to class. Then two girls got on, and the pregnant lady jumped up. The three of them did the big hugs and air kissing thing, then the two newcomers sat down.

The pregnant lady went back to drinking.

A young woman got off the train at the next stop. Standing at the fence, her back to us, she yelled to her friends, who were running up the walkway. The doors closed, and the pregnant lady’s guy friends looked at her fishnet stockinged less-than-perfect thighs and proclaimed, “That’s chunkalicious!” I seethed.

Shortly after that, one of the newcomers pulled out her phone and began showing her friend some pictures. The two of them laughed, then tittered - there’s a difference between the two - and my pen paused, then moved to a fresh line. I watch people a lot, and I know the signs. Something was about to happen. I wait.

Newcomer #1: “Check this one out.”
Newcomer #2: “It’s so big!”
Silence, as they stare in awe. (Seriously, they were gazing.)
Newcomer #2: “How did you, you know, get it..?”
Newcomer #1: “I know, right?” *smiles smugly*
Pregnant Lady: *snorts* Wait ’til I show my birth photos around, then you’ll have something to be impressed about!”

God, I love public transport sometimes.