Thoughts for today.

I can see your underwear, possibly because you are just wearing a giant singlet over a bra. Nice bra though.

Yours too.

Oh my god those shorts are to die for. No, I’m serious, I’ll kill myself if you won’t let me in them.

When you lift your shirt like that and expose your ridiculously flat stomach I have to bite the inside of my lip and look away. Do you even realize how beautiful your youth makes you?

Quit hiking that skirt up, did you not hear what I just said?

When I asked for a sandwich I did not expect a French roll.

Which reminds me, I haven’t eaten brie in a while. Mmm, soft cheese.

Its not that I don’t want to see you, its just that I don’t want to spend hours listening to you talk about yourself. Last time we met, you didn’t even ask how I was, just launched into one of your stories.

I’m pretty sure that’s just a man with tits. I’m also pretty sure that the place they work is a front for something.

I’m not calling her again, not after she stood me up and lied to me.

But damnit I want to, just to bask in her reflected beauty.

All of these things are about women. Except for the ones about French bread and brie.

For all the hours that you spent being tattooed, I would spend that same amount of hours and more making sure you were happy.

I just caught myself saying out loud “fuck it I need to get laid”. Why I am telling myself such obvious truths is beyond me.

I should of gone to those drinks, even just to flirt a little bit.

But then again, why would I do that, why would I do that to myself?

Holy shit, Nine Inch Nails are so much better than I gave them credit for. Sorry Matt.

Tonight is a great night for television. Seriously, is this what I’ve been looking forward to?

You know when you see those smacked out junkies on the tram all nodding off with unlit cigarettes between their lips, do you ever get jealous that they are exactly where they want to be and you’re heading to work for some people who you hate?

I do. Very jealous.

With these grey shorts, pink belt and belly I look like a fag from Miami.

I haven’t taken a photo of my penis in a while.

Where does one got to find out if they have tourettes?

Is Mogais’ song “Stupid fuck gets chased by the Police and then loses his slut girlfriend” quite possibly the best track name ever? Also, one of the greatest songs of all time, coincidently.

Just helped a kid rescue a butterfly from the front window. Near broke my damn heart.

Looking up miniature pigs on the internet. Fuck this, I need intimacy STAT.

Racecar Racecar, wear that bag like a hat.

I got a free membership in the mail the other day for some nightclub. They spelt my name wrong. Even so, I was excited to actually receive something in the mail. I felt like they had gone out of their way to send me this membership to a club I’ve never heard of and I felt it would be an insult to them if I did not go. It triggered feelings of acceptance and comfort, I felt like people actually wanted to see me, like I was loved and needed, I felt like that if I were to opt not to go then the entire club would be disappointed, that the DJ would kill the music and announce that my presence would not be felt, there would be a collective “Aww” and then in the back a girl would start her slow lonely sobbing, I felt all of these things before I realized, just how damn lonely have I become, that a membership to a club that I didn’t apply to, my name spelt wrong and everything, made me feel like I had friends?

Damn it made me want to shoot myself. For being suckered in the first place and not having my defenses up, for being so vulnerable that I would lie to myself. It made me think, how desperate am I? Honesty is not always the best policy, especially when you are critiquing yourself.

And don’t, I repeat, don’t you fucking dare call me and tell me you are my fiend. I know you are. I am aware that at the moment we are a little estranged, it’s not your fault and it’s most likely mine. I still love you, but at the moment, I just don’t feel like actively doing it.

I am really enjoying scars on people at the moment. I just saw a guy with the classic stitches’ scar, a line down the middle of two rows of dots. I like the way that human skin will keep a memory of a moment, even when the human brain does not. I went to roller derby on the weekend and sat behind a girl who had scars all over her, both knees, her arm. I sat behind her trying to piece together what had happened, was it a car crash I wondered, or perhaps a bicycle accident. Was she drunk, who was there and what did they use to stem the flow of blood? There is a girl that serves me at my local sandwich shop and she has a scar on her cheek and jaw and her face is very asymmetrical, I can’t work out whether something violent happened or it is corrective. I find her strangely alluring, she is beautiful and there is no doubt about it.

I read the term ‘bacon sarnie’ last week and have not been able to get it out of my fucking head. Bacon sarnie bacon sarnie, round and round it goes. Then watching Top Gear last night James May used the term. It was like someone had filled a very specific hole in my mind.

So my doctor told me the other day that perhaps I have an obsessive compulsive thing going on with food at the moment. Like comfort eating. I eat a shit load. I then have to shit a shit load. I’m like a baby, I eat, poop and am permanently disgruntled. I have milk breath. I think my doctor is right though. I eat compulsively. I have discovered this stuff called “Branston pickles” which is not really a chutney, not really a spread. I’ll tell you what it is though, and that’s fucking delicious. I have been making egg and bacon sarnies with a bit of Branstons thrown in. Oh man, I could compulsively eat one now. Damn they are good.

The down side to all of this though is that when I pee I have to lean forward slightly if I want to see my penis. Meh, there are worse things.

Observations for today.

You can just wear the hat, its ok, you don’t have to walk around with both hands in the air holding it above your head.

Sure I’m friendly and a little bit intimidating.

Hey dude, stop tugging your t-shirt like that, it only draws attention to the fact that you’ve either pissed yourself or are trying to conceal an erection.

Complaining about the tram won’t make it come any quicker but it will make me totally uninterested in anything you have to say. Also, I’m wearing ear plugs for a reason and the reason is so people don’t talk to me.

I sure could use a piece of ass. I’m just saying.

Hip hop that talks relentlessly about pussy is much like that really camp kid in high school that always talked about his interstate girlfriend but choked on the word vagina.

Unintentional irony is the new black because it matches so well with the embarrassment that comes with it. See above.

Making sexist jokes to feminists who just got back from a union rally is a risky business that should not be undertaken lightly.

Imagining this-particular-girl getting double-teamed is, well, kinda boring.

No shoes no shirt no service.

What I first thought was a running midget turned out to be a woman in a wheel chair. Better/worse?

Go and get me a slurpee.

Saskia’s never coming back and I should have asked her out when I had the chance. She was a sound artist for gods sake. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I sure loved that show, Dead Set, last night, so much so that I dreamed about zombies.

Should have gone to bed earlier though. 2am is not acceptable on a school night.

Must remember to buy pasta on the way home.

I think my drug dealer tried to call me at 8am. What could he have possibly had to say other that “I’ve been awake all night, have you?”

I still don’t understand religious fervor. How can a person believe in a god in this obviously godless world?

Not to get all Jeremy Clarkson on you, but why can’t Ford make a pretty car anymore? I just walked past a GT 500 and it looks like someone tried to make a brick more aero dynamic by dropping it a few times to take any corners off.

I also just walked past Australia’s own Chopper Read, who, without ears, also looks like a brick. I often wonder how his hearing is, but I dare you to ask him.

I just coughed/choked on a sushi roll and now I have what feels like a grain of rice lodged up in my nose somewhere. Should make for an interesting afternoon.

Hang on, isn’t this what twitter is for?

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, people eating in their cars weirds me out. There is something strangely intimate yet public about it. Is this the foodies version of dogging?

There is a window cleaner that walks around talking to himself. He swears a lot. I wonder how business is going?

There is also a group of African men who walk around with bins picking up rubbish. It feels like I’m in South Africa. I would be more comfortable if they were white because then it wouldn’t feel like it’s subtly reinforcing the latent undercurrent of racism that Australia has.

So, leggings in summer = sweaty vaginal patches. Did you not see that one coming?

That girl who is a receptionist in the florist has a great set of tits. Just saying.

I saw a really fat Asian girl this morning and her obesity made her face look TINY. Like it was a joke or something. You could have fit two of her faces on her head, and that would have been awesome!

Recently I have been greeting people with the peace sign. I don’t know where it started and to be honest I’m kind of embarrassed about it. I don’t even know how to defend it, ‘it’s just me, throwin’ up the dove’. Hey look, I just coined a phrase. Shit.

If I met a girl who, for some unfathomable but probably father-related-issue reason liked to be treated really badly, how would it reflect if I changed my behavior to suit her preferences? For instance, just being out and out mean to her, but all in the spirit of trying to sleep with her.

What's the time Mr Wolf?

I went to a party and no one kicked the shit out of me. Which was nice.

A little while ago I got an invite to a friends 30^th birthday and it’s a dress up party with the themes “Controversial, confronting or cou cou couture”. I wrack my brain for days trying to think of an appropriate outfit, and then one morning in the shower inspiration strikes and I have my Eureka moment. I know, I say to myself, I can finally use that African-American blow up doll that I was be quested years ago. So I fixed her leaks as best I could and bought her a shiny new outfit and we were ready to go. It was a conceptual outfit, I was either a mis-en scene called “Under age nigger getting anally raped” or, more succinctly, I could just point to myself and say “I’m a rapist”. You can see how this might cause offense.

So on the night of the party I begin packing my bags and getting ready to go. I was catching public transport there so of course I was not travelling in costume, my death wish is rather too personal to just let any body grant it at a tram stop. As I’m packing my bags it begins to dawn on me just how wrong this night could go. In my bag I have

• One blow up doll, black, with long singlet worn as a dress
• One mobile phone charger wire for tying dolls hands behind back
• One pair of underwear, small, stuffed in the dolls mouth.
• One balaclava
• Two pairs of blue surgical gloves
• Black hoodie

I realize that what I have in my bag is actually a rape kit and if I am stopped by the police I am fucked and not just ‘in a little bit of trouble’ fucked, but probably proper fucked. Understandably I start getting a little bit nervous. I smoke a joint to relax me, unsurprisingly, this does not help. “You only live once” I tell myself as I head out the door. During the whole tram ride there I am on the verge of having a full on anxiety attack, I can feel my heart racing and I am trying not to look too nervous. It does not help that like a Chihuahua I let out an involuntary yelp anytime anyone who looks even vaguely authoritarian gets on. I finally arrive at my destination and alight from the tram, basically running towards the house where the party is.

I get there and realize that I have made a terrible mistake. Instead of a room full of people dressed as abortions, which I half expected, everyone is dressed in eveningwear, there are long gloves and pearls, hats and sequins. There are, of course, a few people looking a bit odd, but nothing too outrageous. I find a room to change in. By now I am so nervous that I am quite literally sweating like a rapist. I am wearing a balaclava, a black hoodie, blue rubber gloves and tied around my waist with my ‘rape belt’ is a black blow up sex doll with underwear stuffed in her mouth and her hands tied behind her back with electrical wire. I mumble my hellos to a few people as well as apologies as I don my outfit, I take a deep breath and step out into the party where a sextet are entertaining the crowd with some classical music.

The first thing I see is a black man. The second thing I see is a lady take one look at me, gather up her child and exit. Heads turn towards me and there are a few open mouths. Sweat is pouring freely off me and I am shaking like a leaf. Generally, I don’t get nervous. Being the centre of attention is not usually a problem for me, but in this case I am not only aware of any public scrutiny but imagining it tenfold. I am so paranoid that suddenly every snatch of a sentence I hear is about me, every gesture I interpret as a warning to move on and to not come back. I am being stared at and behind my balaclava my face is a portrait of anxiety. I am, quite literally, the face of fear. By now I am sweating to such a degree that my gloves are starting to fill up with sweat, not just moisture, so much so that later I will tip them out and it will be like emptying a drink. I stand around nervously for a few minutes, desperately fighting the impulse just to turn and run.

Then the unexpected happens. A very pretty and well-dressed girl comes up and starts talking to me. She is the sort of girl that generally I would be a little bit afraid of because she is obviously quite cool and stylish and also, to be frank, quite hot. She tells me she likes my outfit and we begin chatting. A few more people come up and comment on my costume and pretty soon I have relaxed considerably. I have to take the balaclava off because no one can hear my voice and later the gloves because they get in the way. The sole black guy at the party, the main person who I am afraid of offending, comes up and we talk. He is horrified/impressed with my outfit and tells me that I am very brave. To begin with, I have the feeling that he can’t decide weather to be angry and offended or to laugh along with me. I’d say that he took the humor path because he starts circling me and then later starts trying to pick me up. He is delightfully handsome, but I say no. The night is strange enough already.

Just before I leave someone taps me on the shoulder and points to the dance floor where there is a man dressed in thigh high patent black leather lace up stilettos, a pair of tighty whitey jocks with a cock drawn on the front and “I’m expensive” written on the back, a singlet with the word “Slut” on it, a captains hat and a gas mask. I realize that the mantel of most confronting has been taken from me, for which I am glad. For the last hour, whenever I had been introduced to people they say “Oh you’re the rapist” and it had started to become a bit unnerving.

So to recap, I went to as party as interracial underage rape and made a bunch of new friends, including, a black man who took a real shine to me. I am sure there were a few people there who did not think my costume in anyway amusing, but to hell with them, they were probably really boring. I fully expected to be punched in the face, and, in truth, was kind of looking forward to being kicked out of a party, but in the end, I was welcomed and accepted for being the sick weird fuck I really am.

You know?