Here we are the 03rd of January and it’s all over; fireworks, kissing, good will towards fellow men and them ill-humoured Jews being ill-humoured about rocket launchers in backpacks. What are they like?
All over for another year. Boo-Hoo. Bah-humbug. I’m getting fat. Get me to the church on time. You CAN’T make me go back to work! I should just sell everything up and bugger off! What year did you say it was? A lot of nonsense really, goodness me, who can keep up that pace? People are just mental. Nuts! Did ya see ‘er? Jasus! Look at that one! But we already knew that, didn’t we. That people are nuts. Are you keeping up?
And since I did all of my Xmas shopping in two hours on two consecutive nights, on my way home from work, the silly season actually wasn’t so bad. People who ache to shop should be killed! The fat man has stopped singing, well, not until New Years Eve really, got to love them Boxing Day Sales to keep the all stupid, all singing, all dancing, shop, glut, fest rolling until twelve days after the bleedin’ nailing to the cross… er… um… the birth of commercialism… um… chocolate…rabbits! Whatever?
I spent Xmas in the country. All over and wouldn’t you know that nobody kept the wrapping paper for the poor. Rip! But we had reindeer over the table, all twelve in a row and presents and pudding, two different kinds, for everyone. Our parents all stayed the night, which, by about 9pm, I was thinking wasn’t such a bright idea, all the day and all the night and then the day, again? But the oldies retreated early and we, naughtily, smoked pot in the lounge for the rest of the night, not giving any of them another thought, so it all turned out all right in the end, none of them got up in the night. Thank goodness.
I did write quite a lot of script writing, I think twenty pages, not sure, as I also played around with the formatting, for ages.
But New Years Eve?
I was going to the Laird with Tom, and Manny, when Tom cancelled, unwell. Mark and Luke had guests and would be working, I needed to go out, spread my wings, be myself.
I left Bolago thinking I was getting drugs, to get a text message, I kid you not, as I pushed the button to the roller door, at home, that I was getting none! AH! I just wanted to retreat, back away and yes, I know I should have had my air-conditioning re-gassed, yes, I know it isn’t cold, drive back to Bolago, in 42.5 degree heat, are you mad? Then I was going to Raw Hide with Nicholas, then we trawled around for you know what’s, or at least Tim did, not me, so no great drama there, although it felt like it.
That segued neatly to Tim and Nicholas fighting, just bitchy with each other, and me realising that I didn’t want to go all the way to Prahran in post 40 degree heat, to realise I’d be stuck with no taxi if I didn’t like it! New Year’s Day, sweetie! As Nicholas found out when he had to walk all the way home, in the morning.
But I digress…
Then I remembered Manny, more out of desperation in getting out of Prahran, than any notion of his well being. Bad Chris! I couldn’t let him spend it at home on his own. Could I? – him declining the invitation, later, as he always did, reminded me why I forgot about him in the first place – deciding I could settle for sucking his wogboy face for the night, yum, yum, only to have him do his hermit routine, again. Me too stoned to drive by this time, natch. Not wanting to be locked up in his tiny flat just with him, anyway, deciding to really just wanting to retreat back to Bolago with him, to spend it sitting together in the moon light by the lake, just the two of us. Realising that I’d like to do that, but not with Manny. To cursing all boyfriends! Wailing moonwards, well, maybe I just thought it. Tim pouting, Nicholas getting cross, hiss, spit! It was suddenly looking as though I was going to spent it with Tim at home, him pouting, watching First Wife’s Club! The irony wasn’t lost.
Head spinning. Feeling giddy. Everything was turning to pooh. Collapsing on my bed. Closing my eyes and thinking thoughts like, why do I bother and what is the fucking point… hands in the air… no doubt… listening to my own breathing…Pooh, I said. Bugger ya all! Fuck this! Tim told Nicholas I wasn’t going out with him, more out of spite, being cross with him, than information sharing, but it saved me doing it, although I rushed right in and took over when I heard Tim telling Nicholas, with a spit in his tone… as I came back down the stairs.
Having decided to just die my hair, and go to the Peel and take the fucking drugs and forget everything! Nicholas stomping out cross, see ya. Leaving pouty Tim with me, who came back to life a bit, sans boyfriend. Then spending the next few hours with Tim glued to his phone texting, Nicholas, no doubt, but he didn’t say, he didn’t say much at all, for the rest of the night, so I danced at the Peel.
It was a good looking crowd, sexy boys, out of it boys… cute, flirty boy who wanted me to fuck him after he caught me perving at his arse, more out of far-tooooo-many-pills, than any sexy posture I may have pulled. I pushed him away good heartedly. He was twelve. Tim going home, me dancing more, pretty boys dancing all around, shirts off, shirts on, sexy bulges in their pants they seemed happy to show off, great music, nice vibe, the night still feeling young. But I had a heat/stress headache, which had been coming on slowly and I cursed it too. One thing e’s can’t do is cure headaches, make them worse, if anything, all that teeth clenching, I pushed on, it was a struggle, I had sore feet. When I decided to pack it in, you know something’s wrong when I go home with two pills in my pocket. I was tired, it had been a boiling hot day and everybody around me had been a downer, nobody to give me a pep-up, spiritually or chemically, they had all gone to ground. Nobody smiled serenely at midnight… or at antics. Shared, was very thin on the ground. I retreated to home by 4am.
I sat up in bed at 9am with the little plastic bag still with two pills in it, one red, one green – actually it was white, but don’t you think green sounds so much nicer, so much more in keeping with the season – and cursed myself for not trying hard enough! Silly me. I should have danced for days.
I didn’t think about recoveries seriously enough. Clearly. Although, I remember thinking about them. Woosh. Gone.
The rest is a blur, really. What else can I say? How many days has it been? It feels like a weekend, now. Oh… bother!
I’ve kept myself doped to the eyeballs on marijuana, which has been nice, if a little tiring. Draining. Numbing. You know that sense of not doing anything, it is a hard one to reason away, life slipping by, when one eye is looking in one direction… you can spend only so many 10’s of hours on the couch, without feeling that you may not have made as good a use of your time as you perhaps could have, don’t you think?
And tomorrow? I bought a Tuesday tattslotto ticket, which I never do. I’m desperate. Not to go back to work, that is… not desperate, desperate, you understand
PS. The first day of looking after my mother’s dog, its arse is bleeding out of a peculiar looking red lump, the likes of which I never seen before.
PPS How bad can it be to go to bed @ 4pm.
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