So I've been looking for somebody to take out all this pent-up rage on. After a week of picking up everyone's slack, cleaning up everyone's mess, putting up with everyone's shit and dealing with outlandish expectations, I've finally found a person to take out all this frustration on.

It went something like this:

Friday 4pm. You get home from work and find the heater is turned up to max, that there's a load of washing drying out and there's not a single person home to supervise. After further investigation, you find that your housemate has been off work for the fifth day in a row, and that she's 'forgot' to turn the heater off and prevent the house from burning to the ground. And after five more minutes of exemplary detective work, you find she's removed the tape that's holding her back together, disregarded the physio's very-specific instructions, and proclaimed herself 'pain-free!' at exactly 5:00pm on Friday.

But you don't spit the dummy at any of this, because she's flying interstate on Sunday morning and you won't have to put up with her for the next five days. And truth be told, your anger is over-powered by sheer amusement at the way she can run and jump around at a Ben Folds concert when she's been far too crippled to get off the couch and go into work since the previous Friday morning.

But anyway.

Saturday 9am. You get out of bed and find there's pizza boxes strewn all over the loungeroom, and that your housemate is far too unfit to clean up any sort of mess, despite possessing fitness levels that have clearly allowed her to make it. But you say 'f**k it. f**k you. f**k it.', and you just walk right on by and drag your sorry arse to the gym for another Saturday morning of pain and pretty, pretty gym boys.

Saturday 11.50am. You finish your workout at the gym, you hop back in the car and decide to make that supermarket visit you've been unable to find the time for all week. You see that all the lines are massive, that the guy in front of you is a bit of an arsehole and you watch him stare with contempt at the poor girl who's just trying to earn a bit of pocket money and make a contribution to the Australian workforce. Then you watch the same guy walk away shaking his head, muttering about the level of service he's just received.

But you don't say anything, because he's bigger, stronger, built to hurt, and he probably doesn't like those gosh-darned homosexuals very much.

Saturday 12:03pm. You walk out of the supermarket and toward your local newsagent, deciding that it's time to pick up this month's copy of DNA Magazine. You calmly walk over to the rack, make your selection, walk up to the counter and grab out your wallet to give the girl behind the counter $8.95. The ensuing exchange goes something like this:

Girl: "Would you like a bag for this?" *raises eyebrow*

You: "Excuse me?"

Girl: "Would you like a bag for this?"

You: "No, thank you."

Girl: "Okayyyyyyyyyy." *raises eyebrow again*

You: "Is there a problem?"

Girl: "No."

You: "Good, because you don't offer me a bag when I come in and buy basketball magazines every month, yet you insist on offering me a bag EVERY SINGLE TIME I come in and buy a magazine that could have - oh my friggin' god - gay people in it. Would you like me to conceal my sexuality? Does it make you uncomfortable that I like boys? Do you offer straight men a paper bag when they come in and ogle half-naked women on the cover of Zoo Weekly or Ralph? No. I don't want a bag. I don't want your judgement. Get over yourself."

Girl: *rolls eyes* "$8.95, please."

You: "You know what, keep the magazine. Go f**k yourself."

And then you walk away from the counter, straight past the five or so people who have gathered to watch your vagina monologue, and you march straight down to another newsagency to buy your copy of DNA and live happily ever after.

And then you come home and write a blog about your first tentative foray into the world of gay activism.

*Holds for applause*

Thank you, you've been a great audience.