Sometimes meditation won't cut it. Nor will a scenic solo hike. Seriously, there are moments when even a negroni so strong, so exquisitely chilled, will not save me.
One upside to the constant use of 21st century buzz phrase “self-care” – aside from the mental health benefits – is that it's evolved into a choose-your-own adventure kind of deal. It’s delightful what you can get away with by simply labelling it as self-care.
Remaining in a Netflix cave for an entire weekend. Whacking an absurdly expensive jumpsuit for your dog on your credit card. All these things sound like a total crock, because they are, but I'll admit shameless indulgence sure can be nice.
Journalist Serena Coady smashes up some crockery at Breakr, Canberra’s destruction room.Credit:Sitthixay Ditthavong
It was like being 10 years younger. Remember when you suited up in a trusty King Gee for Questacon's Free Fall? That feeling. Except now, your tastes have evolved and your thrills have darkened.
Wearing the juicy tangerine jumpsuit is also what I imagine American prisoners clothes feel like, sort of airy but you really couldn't get far in them.
Then comes the most conflicting part of my Breakr odyssey. Selecting the implements I wish to go all Super Smash Bros. on.
The cat paraphernalia pulls me this way, and that. Toying with my feline-loving sensibilities. The sleek Siamese porcelain are adorable, and I want to keep them, but still, they look like they'd be incredibly fun to smash to smithereens.
I fill my crate with multicoloured vases, large dinner plates and delicate wine glasses, leading them to the place of their demise. They peer up at me meekly, their faceless visages reminding me of Rudd walking into the caucus room for the very last time.
On this 10-second walk to the break room, I did actually manage to break a few of my glass and porcelain sacrifices.
"This is good," a tiny Gollum-like voice growls from within me.
"I don't know my own strength," I marvelled.
I am so hyped over the pile of debris in the corner, and fixated on not hitting our intrepid photographer Sitt, that I miss my first hit, easily by 70 metres or more. But this stunning display of ineptitude propels me into beast mode. Which by my standards is the equivalent of the average toddler's level of hand-eye co-ordination.
I began mixing it up with my own menu of destruction. As I whirled about the place it became like a scene right out of the Disney hit film Ratatouille, except there was no rat living in my hair and I wasn't in a French scullery, I was in an enclosed room with a weapon. Panting.
Using a stool as a platform, I set up a teacup as the base, with a vase teetering on top, and used the baseball bat to charge through the materials with a top-down manouevre. It was so delicious.
I soon found that smashing plates against the wall did the trick. It felt beautiful to turn the plate into a vertical position, allowing it to glide out of my gloved grips and break apart loudly against the wall. Even writing about it now I have chills. While many folks these days get their sensory thrills from ASMR playlists on Youtube, I think this might be my kink.
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