You Get Back What You Put In. Yeah, Right

Anthony. Good old Jesus. Did he bring his 12 boyfriends with him? I reckon back in the day, they must have been having a jolly old time back in the bunk house. Oh yes, the old tree weeping blood routine. It is all apart of their marketing strategy. The parishioners drop below a certain number and they wheel out something that weeps blood. A tree, Mary, a crucifix, it doesn't much matter. Just get the blood flowing and the printing presses printing and low and behold new believers. Yes, very popular in the early nineties. christian

It’s still cold and wet, in fact, it hasn’t stopped raining for days. It could be the big flood if it continues this way for much longer. Did we ever have flooding, usually, historically? Any time in the past? I think not.

I‘m dressed and eating my breakfast in my room, as I write this first bit. Well, I don’t much like the television blaring with the morning news, which I don’t particularly care to watch, as Shane does in the morning. Even if I suspect he isn’t even out of bed yet. He turns it up and up and up and up so much so that I wonder if he is, in fact, going deaf. I suggested it to him once, I don’t think he liked it. Maybe it is some sort of side effect of his HIV infection? Does HIV make you go deaf?

I can hear him now, yawning loudly, in his bedroom below mine. He does that every morning, yawns so loudly in his room that he can be heard all over the house. Like it is even “look at me, look at me” before he even gets out of bed.

I like quiet in the morning, a chance just to be and become one with the morning and gentle slip into the day.

I headed down the stairs, spotting the light on in Shane’s room but with the door closed, so I headed straight for the front door. As I swung the front door open and stepped out, Shane opened his door. I pulled the front door closed at the same time, with the thought, oh oops.

I’m such a bitch.

I am so over him.

I am going to have to find some way around this, some way to claw this back – that is reverse the situation, not get nasty – otherwise it is going to end in tears? And as it is my house, I can tell you now they won’t be my tears. I know the reasons why, I’m just not sure why I have let them get to me at this point in time. Usually, I can let the stupid actions of others roll over me, just not exactly sure why I can’t now.

I worked at the (name of company) today, which is in Fitzroy, so it was an easy walk. I bought coffee in Brunswick Street on my way there, as I remember them only to have instant coffee in their less than adequate kitchen.

Usually, I filled in for the permanent person, but today I was working with her for the first time. I got to meet her. (name of employee) was grossly fat, like Jabba the Hut. She’s freakishly fat, but I didn’t let on as she waddled towards me to greet me first thing. I’m good like that, such a poke face when I need to. She had no neck at all and rolls of fat under her arms which stopped her putting her arms down by her side and a skirt of belly fat which hung down over her abdomen, or was that her abdomen hanging down? She had to squeeze into the office chair and she wheezed and gasped for breath a lot of the time.

She had chips on her desk and spoke about loving McDonald’s quite a number of times. That, laugh, was no surprise to anyone.

After two too few updates, or two updates too late, or a system that wasn’t so well maintained, we were done and I walked out of there at 14.30. It’s nice to finish at that time. I walked up Bell Street, with its impressive terrace houses, as the afternoon sun shone weakly, but kind of brightly, even if it didn’t have any warmth in it. 

Brunswick Street looked kind of nice in the afternoon, warm and inviting with people doing, what looked like, enjoyable things, things that they wanted to do. 

Suddenly, standing there on the edge of café society, I wanted a little something. So, what if I had a muffin with lunch, I wanted one sweetie more.

I headed down Brunswick Street to La Gourmet and bought a lemon tart. $4.80. I just thought I’d take note of the price for historical reasons. How often do you read about someone having an oatcake and you wonder how much one paid for an oatcake in 19XX Well, does that ever happen? Now, in fifty years when someone is reading this they’ll know what a lemon tart cost.

Then I headed home, with my cake box in my hand. Don’t you just love a cake box in your hand?

It is nice walking in the mid afternoon. Free in the afternoon, it’s nice. None of us should have to work in the afternoon. Actually, fuck all of you, I shouldn’t have to work in the afternoon.

I was going home to make coffee and crawl into bed with the coffee and my lemon tart and my laptop, I knew I was. I could feel it already, soft and warm and safe. Maybe I spend too much time inactive with my laptop, lately I bed. I’m sure that is not good for me. It was still relatively early in the afternoon, I could still do things instead of putting them off, like usual. Forever putting things off. I’m in danger of putting my life off, I’ve half “put it off” already. I headed down Smith Street and bought apple cider vinegar, finally. I’ve been out for weeks. My wonder tonic. And I had a haircut, which I have put off for a week now, at least.

I can do stuff in the day light, I don’t have to disappear into my room straight away.

The lemon tart was sitting on the kitchen bench and suddenly I felt guilty about that. I pushed it across the bench top with one swish of my hand. How long have I been putting my exercise off? I went for a walk for an hour between 4pm to 5pm easy, just like that. My feet were still sore.

Of course, the lemon tart tasted even sweeter, having achieved so many things before I ate it. 

Do you, actually, believe that?

That’s like saying good things come to good people, or that karma exists.

I had dinner at 6pm. Baked beans and the rest of the roast pumpkin and roast carrots. I know that sounds lame, but, you know, I eat such rich, fattening food on the weekends with Sam, I reckon that it is a good thing to eat very plain, fat free food during the week. It is like fasting, just that I’m not getting as plain as just water.

I remembered to feed the cat. I’m not sure she was fed last night. She was awfully good about it (read quiet) if I didn’t, but I don’t think I did.

I scuttled off to bed tea, beans, pumpkin and carrots in my hand.

Shane came home at 7.20pm to a cold, dark house. 

I’m just living my life, though. I’m thinking about me, that’s what everyone else does, isn’t it? It’s about me. It’s not about Shane.

Let’s see if Shane heads out? He hates being on his own. It’s psychological, I adore being wrapped up in my doona on my own. I expect to hear the front door open and close.

Lots of footsteps backwards and forwards, downstairs. Walking, walking. Nervousness, fast, repeated. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. Walking, walking. Like a whippet, or a Jack Russell. Walking, walking.

8.40pm. Shane leaves the house.

9.40pm. Shane returns home. He must have gone to the gym, which he started going to when he met Tuli.

 I fall asleep watching TV. I think the First Tuesday Book Club had just finished. What do I have to read? Wallace Stegner, Crossing to Safety. I woke up at 3am. Missy and I get up, I go to the toilet. Missy heads off down stairs. I scratch my arse as I head back to bed.