Ms St Georges Terrace

Cynthia knew she was better than everyone else the day she decided to skip leavers and get an early start on her accounting studies. Her physical repulsion to fun and yoloism led her to eye-roll and scoffed her way through countless social events like an unimpressed Aunt at a Boxing Day piss-up. Feeding on smugness like a shit-bitch ego-sponge, she now looks down on everyone from her ivory tower that she crafted with the bricks of maturity and the mortar of superiority.

Who needs porn when you can savagely flick your bean to the satisfaction of owning a modest dwelling in Cockburn and having a budget by the age of 25? Accordingly, Cynthia needs no other indulgence than the structure of a well organised weekend with her dickless boyfriend. They didn’t get slurried at after work drinks, so they are primed to enjoy the dizzying highs of Saturday morning farmer’s market and pre-sausage sizzle Bunnings. His whipped eyes look sadly at the Bunnings heroes setting up their grill, “come on darling, stop dawdling!” Fucking, domestic bliss right there.

On the drive home to tend to their organic vege patch, Cynthia engages in a demented staring competition with the morning’s receipts. Her savage lust for fiscal responsibility has her in an ice-cold mega bitch trance, and her partner’s mature attempts at conversation are ignored. Once home, Cynthia instructs her partner to take a photo of her and her cat as they plant rosemary and smile with all the warmth of Pete Evans sitting in the corner at a non-paleo gangbang. She uploads, “tending to the homestead! Even Mr Bibbles is helping xxx”. The pair shoots each other a shit eating looking as if to say, “shove that maturity bomb in your hungover fuckholes, everyone”.

It’s Saturday night, and Cynthia has decided she will grinch the shit out of a mates birthday celebration at Bar 399. She dresses like an accountant and fashions her hair into a ponytail so tight that she could play it like a guitar. She chooses her most serious pair of prescription glasses and treats her driving boyfie to a 30 minute bitch session about everyone who will be in attendance, “I’m sure your mate Damian will be drunk and embarrassing again, and seriously, if Monica wants a relationship maybe she should put away her tits for a change, no dignity”. He nods like a defeated eunuch at urinal pissing competition.

Once at the bar, she has 2 hours to drink 1 glass of white wine before letting everyone know she has a headache and must return to her cats. In this time, she manages to make everyone’s skin crawl with a horrible conversation about her upcoming wedding. “You see, we don’t like sports, isn’t that right babe? So, we decided, to have our wedding on Grand Final day!” Stomachs drop as she continues to talk about the savings they will make, given it’s an unpopular day for church bookings.

She swivels to a man-friend who has been in a relationship for 2 years, “so when will grow up and pop the question hey, make a decent woman out of her?” Her awkward carpet bombing doesn’t stop as she turns to another friend, “so, when will you apply for a job on the Terrace? West Perth is so ew haha”. By the end of her 2-hour social period, no one is overly devastated that she is struck down by a headache and needs her sports-hating man to drive her home.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?