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A La Solo - May 2007

Cervical Cancer Vaccine

What disturbs me most about the girls falling ill after the cervical cancer vaccine was given to them is the blatant cover-up by officials in the name of preventing some sort of hold-up to the vaccination scheme. I would be hysterical too if I was the Victorian schoolgirl who was left paralysed for SIX HOURS while many of my classmates fainted, vomited and fell down around me. So it enrages me when I read that officials were trying to say that the girls were merely freaking out. Right. I remember getting my rubella vaccination and I didn't see a single girl bat an eyelid but wait, I remember, girls get hysterical over everything don't they. Its all in our heads. Some of these girls had symptoms for weeks afterwards. Even Health Minister Tony Abbott has been saying that its all perfectly safe and that girls-will-go-all-silly-somet imes.


The truth is, vaccinations are always a risky business - if you knew what went into one you would have even more reason to fear the dreaded needle. Vaccines are made by sticking the virus into a monkey's kidney then sucking it back out once the monkey has produced an antidote then slopping it into a cocktail of heavy metals to preserve the mix until it can be squirted into your bloodstream. The trouble is, you can sometimes suck out other pathogens from the monkey's kidney (it is claimed that this the HIV virus was accidentally transmitted to Africans during the polio vaccination scheme in this way (read: "The White Death" by Julian Cribb) and so while it gives you immunity to one thing you might get more than you bargained for. However in this case, its probably the toxic mix of preservatives used to keep the vaccine from 'going off' that is producing symptoms in a couple of its batches.

And let's remember, Gardasil is a product worth billions of dollars to its manufacturer and relieves the public health system of tedious and costly pap smear tests. We should all be raising our eyebrows and asking if this is really about the health of young women or about what makes the world go round these days...






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They Tried to Make them Leave Rehab and They Said No, No, No!

It's funny what comes into fashion in Hollywood. At the moment its being in rehab or some other correctional facility for the overindulged-daughters-of-hype in celebrity-land. And you can't do it quietly either. Its just not cool to sneak into rehab. You have to be dragged in, puffy-eyed, knickerless and if at all possible, with a shaved head. It seems that if the world stops giving you attention for being well, relatively normal then the only thing to do is to begin a complete, no-holds-barred-bender. Gone too, are the days where celebrities would be ushered through the gates of some discreetly located rehabilitation facility masquearading as a holiday resort. Or the days when celebrities would drown their sorrows discreetly at private parties. Lindsay, Britney and Paris are obscenely plain about their substance abuse because let's face it - you have no good reason to be hitting the town like a nuclear bomb when you're are a gorgeous 20-something with enormous wealth and a grand future ahead do you?





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Stop Asking Me Questions You are Making My Head Hurt

After a tiring day in the city I decided to drop into a spa for a relaxing express facial. My complicated life was starting to engrave lines (albeit fine ones) across my forehead. All I wanted is someone to caress away my tension and tell me I had the skin of a sixteen year old girl (just lie to me please?). But I was about to discover that getting an express facial just isn’t as express or as relaxing as it sounds. Because I had never visited their spa I was duly asked to fill out a form with all my particulars. Ok, fine. Then, upon entering the room I was asked to fill out another form with suspiciously similar questions. Were they trying to determine if I had been fabricating my contact details five minutes earlier? Stop frowning (you will only make the wrinkles bigger) and fill out the stupid form, I tell myself. After donning the Velcro towel, the hairline protector and the hair net I clambered onto the bed and awaited my half hour of pampering bliss. The therapist reappeared. She was holding another piece of paper. I feel the wrinkles turning into deep, dark crevices. “I’m going to ask you some questions first of all.” Oh great. I smiled graciously and motioned for her to continue. The smile faded as she folded out the piece of paper. Twice. It reached her knees. She said apologetically, “I’m afraid there are a lot of questions but I’m going to get through them as quickly as possible.” Geesh. By the time we get through them all the facial will have to be slopped onto my face then hosed away instantly with a high-pressure nozzle. Taking a deep breath, I tell myself to stop stressing – that’s what landed your age-challenged face here in the first place. The first question was asking for my date of birth. I had to almost physically restrain myself from tearing off the hair protector thingy and gagging her with it. Were they trying to make me angry? At what point was I ever going to be allowed to lie down, close my eyes and stop thinking? After the ridiculous interrogation about my lifestyle habits, medical history and
bad habits was finally over the facial finally began. I wanted to ask if my responses in any way influenced the method by which she applied the facial until I realised I already knew the answer. Of course not. They are there to make the establishment look professional, scientific - qualified even. All that paperwork would be carefully placed together into a neat little pile, then into a file, then sooner or later, into a recycling bin where in its next life it could serve a much more useful purpose - perhaps as a handsome cheque written out to the genius who banishes useless questionnaires (here’s to hoping).

To be honest though the blissful minutes that followed were worth jumping through the paper hoops and I would go again (they’re just lucky they didn’t ask me to fill out a feedback form - oh but wait, I just got an email…).
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Top Five Ways for Paris Hilton to Get out of Jail

1. Offer to stop singing.
2. Get her friend Nicole Ritchie to slip through the bars into her cell and then threaten to call a television crew to record the experience.
3. Pout (it works every other time doesn't it?).

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Mother's Day

It's just after dawn. And its Mother's Day morning. And I'm struggling to sneak into my parent's house after a big night. A very big night. My mouth is gluey, my brain feels like its the consistency of fairy floss and everything hurts. I struggle into the shower and allow the night's revelrie now turned sour on my skin flow down the drain. I'm panicking in slow motion as I get dressed. My brain is so foggy that thoughts come as single words. Most of them offensive. Mother's Day. Expletive. No Gift. Expletive. Plan B? Expletive. Think. Expletive. Lunch. Enough? Unlikely. Expletive.

I've woken my mother up with my sneaking around and she is having breakfast. I try not to sway as I stretch my face into a smile and say, "Happy Mother's Day! I'm taking you out for lunch." My insides lurch. I'm not sure if it was from the barely stifled terror at being unprepared for Mother's Day or from the mixture of vodka, whiskey and wine waging war with vital organs


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Stop Acting so Adultish

It was a toss up last night. I had resigned myself to a prudent evening activity of a hot milo and some light reading when my friend said she was going to a singles party followed by a birthday bash. At first I thought no, you are not a party girl anymore, you are grown-up, responsible, well-behaved and you have no time to waste on such frivolous activities anymore. Then I saw on the backseat of my car by pure serendipity were my favourite halter-neck top and skirt. I called her back. "I'll be there in half an hour." I said. We arrived at the singles party and scoped out the desultory looking crowd. "Hey, everyone's old." my friend commented. We soon discovered our friend had unwittingly invited us to an over 30's event. The median male attendee appeared to be about forty-five and grizzly-looking. But this disappointing discovery was not going to deter us from having a good time. Upon arrival we were given a ticket with a celebrity name on it with instructions to find the celebrity's partner among the other guests in order to redeem the ticket for a raffle entry. You were in to win a bottle of Ricadonna and a suspiciously cheap-looking bottle entitled the dubious label of 'Fish'/

"Let's make this interesting." I said with a wicked gleam. "We get an article of clothing for the no of celebrity matches we get." Kiah's eyes widened, "I'm only wearing two pieces of

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Self-Discipline

MATURE CONTENT
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Here's to You Harley

I arrived at the house I was sitting the other day and went to take the electric collars off the dogs. The border collie leaped all over me until I got the collar off then I turned my attention to the other one. There was blood all over his face. But oddly, no injury. For a moment I was confused. And then I thought with a sudden sickening feeling. Where was the cat? Earlier that afternoon I had allowed the cat to go outside as he was eagerly waiting for me to open the door and it was a beautiful day to be outside doing what cats do best (nothing). The owners had assured me that the cat could go outside because the dogs were securely contained within the house yard.

But now, as I stood looking at the blood-drenched nose of a rather jubilant looking dog I just knew. "Harley?" I called out fearfully. Grabbing a torch I began to make my way around the side of the house. Lying on the ground in a crumpled, bloody mess was the murdered Harley. In horror I ordered the dogs back to the verandah. My housesitting career flashed before my eyes. This was probably worse than burning the house down. I had killed one of their own. One of the family. A beloved furry companion who had been with them since kittenhood. I looked at the blood-soaked body in agony then went inside to make a frantic call to the emergency number I had. Tearfully, I explained what had happened and they attempted to calm me down. But I was not calm. This was worst-case-scenario 101 and it had happened to me on only my third housesitting assignment. I would be homeless by morning for sure. Everyone would find out what a careless, terrible, hopeless housesitter I was. I would be banished from the online housesitting register and lose custody of my own two cats...

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Genetically modified foods

I don't really have a very good reason to criticise genetically modified foods. It does make me wonder however if 21st century man is really in a position to criticise hundreds of millions of years of natural genetic modification.

At the very least, if they are going to be genetically modifying things then they should be doing something useful to vegies. Like making square tomatoes. Whenever I slice a tomato for a sandwich I struggle to make the round pieces fit side by side on the bread. If I overlap them a bit then it makes the sandwich bulky and dangerously unstable. Seeing as the sandwich is the cornerstone of the Australian lunchtime economy I think all efforts should be put forward to developing a square tomato with slices that just neatly go to the edge of the piece of bread. Think of how many more people would eat tomato and cheese sandwiches. It might solve childhood obesity, world hunger - oh, there is no end to the possibilities.

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The Full Moon Made Me Do It

I was at a cocktail party and met a psychiatric nurse who revealed something which I had long suspected...the full moon can turn you into a monster. During a full moon the moon is on the exact opposite side of the earth as the sun. The gravitational pull (as she explained) in these diametrically opposing directions causes the fluid surrounding our brains to swell with the pressure, pressing down on sensitive parts of the brain. It made so much sense. The other day, my friend at work said that she had been very close to making a phone call to her long-estranged lover and that she had only just been able to restrain herself from picking up the phone. She couldn't understand what would compel her to do something so crazy but I knew - it had been a brilliant, shining full moon that nightl. Its a pity I didn't have as much self-control. A rage-filled text message made its way to my text and the next day I was filled with so much horror at what I had done that I deleted his phone number completely and contemplated leaving the country. For a while I agonised over my state of mental health until I realised I could blame it on the invisible sway that a giant hulk of rock has over my emotional well-being.

The scientists claim that there is no correlation between loony behaviour and lunar phases but then scientists seem to have never been able to agree on anything really so I like to make up my own mind. I am betting that the full moon's effect is only apparent when people are already in a sensitive state so sure, it might not effect you every month but when you have had a rough couple of weeks leading up to it then those neurons might just snap, crackle and pop under the pressure. Perhaps the full moon is God's way of bringing our suppressed emotions to the surface for us to spew out like a nasty furball. It might be ugly and emberrassing but afterwards, you kind of feel glad that its gone.
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Rules? What Rules?

It was a time for desperate measures today. Some time ago I had purchased front-row tickets to see a much-adored performance and hoped to surprise my then-boyfriend (who was just as big a fan) with them at an opportune time. But before I had a chance to tell him he broke up with me.

So then I began to ask around, thinking one of my friends would leap at the opportunity to come. But no-one wanted to - everyone had plans or just wasn't into the show's performer. Panic levels rising like a thermometer in January, I tried asking my sister - but she was going to a concert. Then I thought about asking someone from work then cringed at the thought of potential political ramifications if I chose one colleague over another.

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