'Brace yourselves. Here is my extensive list of things I deem deeply, personally offensive.'

I was doom-scrolling the world's favourite newsletter platform Substack one night (yes I'm better than you), when I stumbled upon a post by a writer named Tamsin Amy. The publication is called 'Rich Childless Godmother' (great name), and her latest issue was titled, "Things I Deem Offensive."

As I read her perfect, curated list of grievances, from the sin of arriving exactly on time for a dinner party to the audacity of choosing strawberry jam (as opposed to raspberry), I felt a revelation ignite within me. Here was an icon of a woman articulating the low-stakes, high-irritation moments that quietly drive us all up the wall — and I was nodding along to each one.

Inspired, I grabbed my phone and started my own list.

It started as a trickle and quickly became a flood. I took my (albeit quite aggressive) list to my Mamamia Out Loud co-hosts on our subscriber-only episode, and it became immediately clear that everyone was sitting on a goldmine of personal offences.

Listen to our completely unhinged episode where we unleash all the things we find deeply offensive. Post continues below.

What began as a joke quickly turned into a deep vent. A declaration of the little things that feel like a personal attack.

So, brace yourselves… Here is my extensive list of things I deem deeply, personally offensive.

Paper Straws.

I'm all for saving the turtles, I truly am. But I refuse to believe the only solution is a soggy piece of paper that disintegrates into a sad pulp in my Diet Coke after exactly 90 seconds. We can send billionaires to space, but we can't invent a functional, eco-friendly straw? The texture is offensive, the rapid decline in structural integrity is offensive, and the little bits of paper I inevitably swallow are, you guessed it, offensive.

If we can't find an adequate suckable solution may I suggest, we take it back to the 1600s and drink our beverages the good ol' fashioned way. Mouth-to-glass. I promise you will look 10x sexier than awkwardly flicking your tongue around in search for your soggy paper contraption.

Gin Martinis.

They taste like petrol that's been filtered through a pine tree. I don't understand the appeal, and I'm offended when I order a 'martini' (which I never do) and the bartender assumes I want this botanical monstrosity instead of a crisp, clean vodka one. It ruins my night and my palate.

Poached Eggs.

Controversial, I know. But I find them deeply unsettling. They're wobbly, unreliable, and one false move with a fork can lead to a watery warm watered yolky-pocalypse all over my perfectly good avocado toast. Just give me a predictable scramble. I don't need that kind of anxiety before 9am.

Saying the phrase: 'Money can't buy happiness'.

Yes. Yes it can. This is exclusively uttered by people who have money and guess what? They've been doing us dirty. Money can buy security, therapy, a holiday, a cleaner, and the expensive cheese that you've been eyeing at Harris Farm. Stop lying to us.

Silent Discos.

My personal seventh circle of hell. There is nothing more unnerving than walking into a room of people flailing around in complete silence, each lost in their own world. It's like a cult meeting but with more awkward shuffling. The headphones are the worst contraptions I've ever seen in my life— why are they always a blinding fluro colour?

The stomping, the bad singing out of time that will live on forever in someone's iPhone 14 camera roll and finally… the awkward end where you all have to stand in a line as you give the headphones back in silence.

People over 6 foot 5 who don't play basketball professionally.

What a waste of a god-given gift. You have been blessed with a physical advantage that the rest of us vertically-challenged mortals can only dream of, and you choose to be an... accountant?

It's an insult to the sport and a personal affront to my unrealised athletic potential.

Fruit Salads that are 80% melon.

I see you, catering companies and supermarket delis. I see you using honeydew and rockmelon as cheap, watery filler. A fruit salad should be a medley of berries, kiwi, and pineapple and I should pretend to be eating it like I'm a Roman empress being swooned by a knight. Instead, we are consistently served a bowl of bland, crunchy water-orbs with a few grapes thrown in for decoration. A culinary scam if you will.

Yelling "shotgun" when you're about to go for a drive.

Are we 12? This archaic and hella embarrassing ritual needs to end. We are adults. We can decide on seating arrangements without resorting to shouting the name of a firearm like a fraternity pledge. The new rule is — if you yell "shotgun", yes you may still sit in the front seat but it gives allowance for the rest of the car passengers to ridicule and bully you for the entirety of the trip.

Asking if you can show me photos of your kids or pet dog.

Look, I'm sure your child is the cutest thing since sliced bread and your dog is a certified good boy. But unless I explicitly ask, please do not force me to scroll through 27 near-identical photos on your phone while I muster a convincing "Awwww!" and pretend that your baby/dog looks different to the other babies and dogs I've seen (they don't). I didn't sign up for this.

Looking me in the eye when we clink our glasses together.

I'm not trying to seal a blood pact, I'm just trying to have a celebratory beverage. The intense, unwavering eye contact feels less like a fun tradition and more like you're trying to peer into my soul to check for seven years of bad luck. On top of this… if you say the words "look me in the eye" I'm throwing my drink in your face (at least you know it won't be a gin martini).

Saying "I'm not ready to date right now" when I literally met you on a dating app.

Then what, pray tell kind sir, are you doing here? Collecting matches like Pokémon cards (is that what boys do)? Wasting my time and my perfectly good thumb-swiping energy? This is the ultimate dating app hypocrisy and I find it deeply, deeply offensive and a direct obstruction to my highly curated vibe of chill-girl.

Watch: The dating experience women keep having. Post continues below.

Any type of roadworks or construction.

It doesn't matter if it takes place when I'm sleeping (waking me with the dulcet tones of a jackhammer) or when I'm awake (creating a traffic jam that makes me late for everything). It's a personal attack orchestrated by the city council to ruin my life specifically.

People who say "I hate receiving flowers" and then immediately post them on Instagram.

The performative disdain for a universally lovely gesture is infuriating. Just admit you love the attention. Your "Ugh, what am I even going to do with these? 🙄" caption, posted above a perfectly arranged photo of the bouquet on your marble countertop, is not fooling anyone. If I see another post like this… I'm robbing you. And I might not stop at the flowers.

The fact that it's 2025 and women are still bleeding through their pads.

Seriously, wtf? We have artificial intelligence that can make me look like I'm standing at the Eiffel Tower with a dog on my shoulder (please see below) and cars that can drive themselves, but we haven't yet engineered a sanitary product that can reliably contain a heavy flow for more than three hours? It's absurd and I'm just gonna say it… a patriarchal conspiracy. HA. Make it make sense.

This literally took 20 seconds?

Laughing quietly in public spaces.

This one sends me into an immediate spiral. What are you whispering about? Is it me? Is it my outfit? My life choices? For the love of God, just laugh loudly. A full-throated cackle is a sign of joy. A quiet, secretive titter is a sign you're judging me, and I won't stand for it.

What are your thoughts on my list? Do you have anything that deeply offends you? Tell us in the comments below.

If you want more from Emily Vernem, you can follow her on Instagram @emilyvernem.

Feature image: Supplied.