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?

Failure to Launch, failure to even get the rocket on the fucking pad.

To tell you the truth, I don't know why I called her. I knew that we would end up just talking about her weekend and how that guy came down from Sydney to fuck her, and not about how I had feelings for her like I said I did on Friday. More breath and brain space wasted, I may as well just stand on the corner and spoon that shit out like some weird pink and grey ice cream delivery service, all the while becoming slowly retarded as I give myself a lobotomy.

It really is all about me you know. I could beat my head against a wall of women and all I would get is a loving concussion. Oh I am tired and should have taken that Valium when I had the chance. At least then I could have slept.

I wish I could eat properly at the moment. I get so outrageously hungry, then as soon as food is on my plate the hunger evaporates. Its killing me. I'm back to midnight cereals and taking bananas to bed with me in case I wake up hungry. Which reminds me, I have to buy some more bananas.

I had a pretty culture filled weekend. I saw Fischerspooner on Friday night, they were ok. It went from alright to awesome and then just ok and then pretty good then just ok again. If only it was consistent. I didn't get to bed until about 4 so I spent Saturday feeling like I was hung over but without the drinking that goes with it. I slept, played some video games, cleaned the house, ate, went to bed. It was... nice. On Sunday a friend and I saw the Ricky Swallows exhibition at the Ian Potter gallery. It was pretty amazing although after talking to some 'arty' people I am beginning to think that perhaps not so amazing. Apparently he has a lot of helpers who aren't mentioned in any of the articles, still, the work was very beautiful. It's sculpture, a lot of wood carving, and for some of it the quality of work is absolutely fantastic, I'll give him that.

I think the high-light of my weekend though was seeing the movie Moon with Sam Rockwell. I love my sci-fi and this film was absolutely wonderful. Nothing huge and no mega mind blowing special effects, in fact, I think a lot of the effects are models as opposed to CGI or anything like that. Do they even call it CGI anymore? Who knows. Whatever, all that counts is that it was a great film and not to be missed. Sam Rockwell is the man. For rizzle. I would move to the moon, if only for the desolation.

Between all of these activities I though about her, her thighs, her hair, her eyes. I set myself up for quite a fall, for no reason other than it kept my mind busy. I wonder now what I will think about to avoid thinking about her, quantum physics perhaps, maybe design something new and inventive that everybody's been waiting for. Maybe some new type of douche bag that I can name after myself, you know, just for laughs.

This blog is beginning to sound a lot like diary, which I don't like. Unless its Dylan Klebolds diary, which in that case is fine.

What I really want at the moment is to be inspired and I guess what smarts (to use a term from 1989 American TV) is that this girl, well, inspires me. I think about her and suddenly my minds all 'lay entangled in bed sheets and emotions' or how her skin is like milk and how my tongue longs to taste her sweat. She makes me want to write poetry again, poems that no one will ever read but will be written anyway, poems about skin and bodily fluids, poems about sex and love and all in between.

And let us not forget how desperate I am to fuck her. She conjures such rampant images of sex in my brain that its like a stampede at a brothel. Unrelenting. What is the name of that weird human emotion that makes me want to fuck her until her eyes roll back in her head and then hold her as she falls asleep and the hypnogagic twitches start.

I doubt there is a name really, people generally don't name things that they only experience in their imaginations. Except for kids, and they suck anyway.

I just re-read both this and my last entry and realised they are basically the same. Here's where i'd say something like 'Fuck I hate me' but I was told that this blog is very much a self indulgent rant. So fuck it, back on hiatus I go. See you when I could be bothered and feel that I can actually contribute to the culture of greatness instead contributing to the culture of mediocrity.

Circle around and come back for more.

So this is the second time that I've attempted this blog, I wrote one yesterday but then discarded it at the last moment. It wasn't very good, in fact, it was down right shit. So here I go again.

I looked after my nephew on the weekend. It was good although these bloody teenagers, its hard to know when they are bored or having fun, their faces remain the same. It was difficult to tell whether I pissed him off or pleased him. I can only assume he had a good time, I haven't received any angry phone calls so it must have been ok.

So a few posts ago I did an entry called Hotel California where I talked about an abandoned hotel that me and my friend went to. My very own personal photographer has put up some photos on his blog, check them out. It's very difficult to tell your friends that what they are doing is amazing with out sounding like you are sucking up their arse for some reason. The thing is, I love the direction that he is taking with his photos. He has a good eye and somehow manages to capture the feeling of whatever it is that he's shooting. Although I provided links to some flikr accounts, his pictures are better. I look forward to what The Future brings.

You know what I haven't been in a while? In love. I realised that I love, but I'm not in love. And it doesn't matter how much I love, if its unrequited then it means nothing. Saying that, I just spent 10 minutes on the phone with the girl I'm cultivating a crush on discussing her up coming weekend and how she is finally going to be able to fuck the guy she's been after. Yeah, it was a truly wonderful phone call. It reminds me of the time I had to listen to that girl that I was in love with get fucked by that dude that I secretly considered a douche bag. Yeah, that was awesome too. And he still has my Bumfights DVD, douche bag.

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, L O V E love. That feeling you get when the person that you desire comes into your field of vision, like you stomach is about to take flight, like you are about to experience something amazingly wonderful. That giddy light headed feeling that could be love, could be a stroke.

And that's all the analogies that I could think of. Perhaps its better that I am not in love, it does not seem like I have much to offer anyone. You know how it is with love, it's all, like, exciting and shit.

I can lust though, that's something I can do. Oh I lust like there's no tomorrow. Perhaps if I wasn't serving such top quality trim all day then maybe I wouldn't be lusting so much. For instance, I just watched a hot Irish girl try on some jeans and play with her own ass in the mirror. Is it any fucking wonder I can't sleep at night?

And to think I abandoned the other blog because it was too depressing.

It ain't just for the young and disillusioned.

Today is a day I long to talk about depressing things, not because I am depressed, but because I will be if I don’t air them out like some wet coat I’ll go all moldy both inside and out and I don’t want that. I need not to smell like piss and decay, I already feel like that is what I am made out of.

So in interesting news one of my grandmothers tried to kill herself with an overdose of pills on the weekend. No, not the one that we all don’t like, the other one that only some of us like. I actually had to ask my cousin when she told me, “Should I be upset over this?” I know I know, I am weird and cold and emotionally removed. But hey, it’s life in the 21^st century, you need to be to remain stable. Apparently she has severe depression. There is a chance she may have a heart attack due to the drugs they had to give her to counteract the drugs she had taken. I figure this would be a win for her. As you know, I am a firm, supporter, if not advocator, of suicide. So I hope that this goes her way, because it’s pretty selfish of us to sit here and say “Oh noes, stay here alive in this life that you don’t like, it will make us feel better.” She is well and truly adult so she can with her life what she wants, and if she wants to end it, so be it.

I am expecting a visit from a friend. I use the term expecting as loosely as possible. I am hoping for a visit from her, I expect nothing. And I made myself ever so available.

On other not so new news, I am desperate for a piece of ass. If I have one more sexy dream I will officially have the libido of a 15yr old boy. It’s like the throttle is open, it just keeps ramping itself up. Everybody I encounter gets this thought about them; “Can I fuck you?” It’s getting crazy, I’m worried that someone will look at me the wrong way and in response I will just flop it out. And by it I mean my dick. I just had to pull myself back from flirting OUTRAGEOUSLY with a mature customer from New Zealand. I’ll give her some new zeal. I am my very own motivational poster.

Erections; I have one.

I saw a band called Metric on the weekend. Oh my fucking god. They were amazingly awesome. When I get over excited my vocabulary tends to be of the 14yr old valley girl variety so here’s some words that you can use to describe how the gig was. Wicked, awesome, excellent, bootylicious (?), mega, rocked out, it rocked, killer bee, tubular dude etc etc. I didn’t really get where I was going with that but hey, like any brave adventurer I struck out, one lost foot after the other.

What I am trying to day here, I guess, is that not only were Metric as tight as a drum but enthusiastic and professional as well. Really, a super super gig.

And so I leave you with perhaps my favourite lyric of theirs, from a song that they did not play. It’s called ‘Calculation theme’ and I have always wanted to lie in bed coming down off pills with someone, listening to this song. When it is over, we’ll fuck, slowly and methodically, until we fall asleep in each others arms. I do not ask for much.

Tonight your ghost will ask my ghost, where is the love?

Tonight your ghost will ask my ghost, who put these bodies between us?