My birthday always makes me think too much. You should probably scroll to the final paragraphs and bypass the rest. Honestly.
I don’t remember a lot from when I was young, but I remember the stories from my first few days that shaped a lot what I became later on. Mum’s water broke in the middle of the night when she was at 29 weeks, the day before my older sister’s first birthday. The party was cancelled when she was helicopter lifted to Port Augusta, and Dad came in the car with the first three kids asleep in the backseat. He made record time, only to find out they were going to delay labour as long as possible for the sake of my health. Almost three weeks – 17 days exactly - mum spent on bed rest in the hospital, while Dad’s brothers took over the station and he rented a room in Port Augusta, the kids staying with Dad overnight and in the care of Grandma Laine during the days. And then they decided I was ready.
I wasn’t unhealthy, but coming as early as I did, I was small and needed some extra care. I didn’t get home until June, and for the duration of May after she left the hospital, Mum returned home with the girls – because Alyse was too little to stay away too long, and Ainsley was a good help around – and Dad kept August and stayed, and the two of them visited me every day. When I was little I’d always hear stories about how August would press his face to the glass of the incubator I was in and sing nursery rhymes at me, and how he was the first one to properly hold me, and how at three and three quarters, he’d call me His Baby and wouldn’t let anyone else pick me up unless they asked him first. He wasn’t fond of Grandma Laine and she grew to hate coming to visit, because August would refuse to let her pick me up and at four, he was a lot more threatening than he is now. One of my first memories is of August and Ainsley squaring off at the dinner table, because she called me a bratty little shit when I threw my squash and carrots on the floor one night in a particularly dramatic fashion, and he wouldn’t have it. She was right mind you, I was a bratty little shit, but August would never allow any bad words to be said about me, and ended up sent to his room without dinner for punching his older sister in my honour. Some things never change, and while I’ve stopped throwing food in disgust, my brother still defends me far more than I deserve, and somehow still believes I am his sweet baby sister. I’ve proven him wrong in more ways than I care to mention on the sweet bit, but I suppose I’ll always be his baby sister and that’s lucky for me.
About three years after that, and exactly two months before my third birthday, it was my turn to have my own living baby doll to coddle and drag around. Ainsley was over the new baby thing thanks to me being such a little demon, August had me, and while Alyse tried to use her year and seventeen days as leverage to staking a claim on the boy, the first time the new baby had a dirty diaper, she was out of there. I was slow to speak much (which I definitely made up for later, mind you) but Mum tells me when I first visited the hospital, arriving hand in hand with August, he picked me up and I peeked into the bassinet, made a face and yelled out that the baby was ugly. I maintain that is not the case, and with my speech difficulties I was saying something nicer that just couldn’t be understood… but I don’t remember what. Since I couldn’t pronounce L’s and tended to add B or D’s to everything I said, well, ‘Buggy!’ is what I shouted, and Buggy is what the child was forever named. I didn’t have the patience for my own infant then, I was far too busy playing in dirt and following August around the house and throwing screaming fits outside the schoolroom doors when Mum wouldn’t let me in with him, but once the baby, more commonly known as Alfie, started to crawl and would follow me, well, didn’t I feel important. I knew how much I loved August, so if this child was doing to me what I did to my big brother, clearly I was worshipped. Also, he liked to crawl in the dirt too, which was likely a much bigger selling point at three years. And just like I had spent my earlier years, screaming outside the schoolroom door for August to come out and play with me, when it was my turn to go Alfie would do the same. Of course, I was far less studious than August and couldn’t be bothered with my lessons (unless they were animal science) or the rules, and if Mum wasn’t in a particularly grouchy mood I’d sneak to the door and let Alfie come in and scribble all over my worksheets in his favourite purple crayons.
We had nearly three years between us, but for the first twelve years of my life, my little brother was my best friend. I can’t remember much of my childhood spent apart from Alfie, and even when we weren’t playing together, he was never very far behind. Even after I left home at twelve to live in Port Augusta, I’d phone home and speak to Alfie every second night and Mum would always have to intervene and cut us off after two hours had gone by and it was past Alfie’s bedtime. We’d send each other mail, usually cheesy cards and stupid memos, and every week, exactly three days after the station’s mail went out, I’d run home from the pool – literally run – to get the mail from Aunt Sophie’s box and sit on my bed, reading everything Alfie. had written to me and placing whatever little trinket or keepsake he had sent – because there was always something – on my shelf, and tucking all the letters safely in a box that stayed atop my nightstand. I still have that box in a safe place, and sometimes when I am on my own and need a pick me up, I grab one of Alfie’s nine year old scrawly messages, and it always manages to make everything okay. Because really, my little brother still is my best friend, and always will be because no matter what happens, nothing can destroy the bond that was formed the first time he grabbed one of my fingers and jammed it between his gums with a shriek of delight, and nothing can take away the years when all we had was each other and a few hundred thousand acres of the earth to explore together.
It never seemed strange that my best friends were my brothers, because we didn’t have a choice but to do everything together, and I had a lot more in common with them than I did my sisters. Aside from a few weeks a year, we didn’t have anyone but each other, and it’s hard to imagine unless you’ve been there I think. Sure we got sick of everyone, but there wasn’t an alternative – if Alfie cheated at Trouble, which he did a lot, I didn’t have other friends down the street I could ditch him for to go for a swim with instead. I had to tell him off, get over it, tell him to change into his suit and carry on. None of us ever fought for very long, because we’d be punishing ourselves in a way, cutting off our only playmates for naught but anger’s sake. Even as August got older, he never shook us off like most pre-teen boys do with their younger siblings; even if he was too old to play our games, he never seemed to mind us coming round and showing him what we’d been up to. Sometimes he even would agree to play, and then pretend he didn’t know the rules so we could yell at him in reminder, laughing hysterically as we beat our older brother at the game he’d perfected and taught to us himself years before.
Anyway. Life has been pretty up and down as of late, but I am trying to pull myself together and get things going again. I never stay down for long as anyone who knows me knows; I get upset, freak out for a day or so, then I’m okay. This time around it was three days, but I mean, it was a pretty devastating verdict handed my way. A quick trip away , the return of my other half and my birthday party healed that easily, and while I bet you’re all fussing about the lack of paparazzi shots from my party, that is because MTV took exclusive rights – give it a few weeks and you’ll get to see all the trouble we got into including Brady Collins’ ass and Jayda Barclay serenading us with Tiny Dancer (complete with Elton glasses and table dancing) , hear my rendition of the Lee Harding classic Wasabi (lol Lee Harding), get a full rundown of the Aubrey Workout Plan (tailored especially for beagles), and witness August in all his bearded shirtless glory. It’ll be worth it, I promise. Well, if August’s manbreasts don’t make your eyes bleed. Anyway, as I usually do I’ve looked on the bright side, and it’ll sound awful but… I’m actually sort of glad I got the boot. I won’t compete again after this, and it’s not easy to understand if you’re not in my head but, I am finally free. My life finally belongs to me again.
So thanks to all for the well wishes, both regarding my career and for my birthday. It really means a lot to me that perfect strangers are pulling for me, and the entire country doesn’t hate my guts. For those who were wondering, aside from this show that is filming I haven’t got any big plans at the moment; I think I am going to spend the summer unwinding from a few crazy months, visiting Soundwave and Barclay on tour, hanging out with friends and working on some music with my brother. I don’t know that it’ll ever get heard outside of the family but it’s a nice way to release stress, it’s fun, and it’s something I’ve loved doing since I was a little girl. Right now, locking myself in a studio with my brother is exactly what I need to unwind and reenergize, and for the next little while with Jayda rehearsing for tour and Alfie back home to work on his own stuff, we’re going to do just that. Also we’re going shopping because I finally found a house.
Knowing my life is finally getting itself in order is a good feeling. Goodnight.
I love Buggy. He doesn't like me much lately, but I still love him the squishyest. And is he not perfect? He is perfect.
My favourites ever, completely smashed. In case you couldn't tell...
WEDNESDAY: This is me at the airport around 5am, hanging out in some mad gangster chair while we were waiting to board the airplane for New Jersey....
Ryan Neely is ridiculous. He is almost as drunk as me, and I love him for it. Probably a little too much. Oh well. 
After spending the day wandering around Boston and the evening at a fancy V-Day wedding, my favorite band in the world had a show....
And they let me sing with them. Holy crap. 
Shortly after that wonderful greeting, I threw a razor at my hero and made him remove that dead animal on his face before driving the three hours straight home to see this adorably perfect little face anxiously awaiting my arrival: 
