10.03.05
8.35.
Now, just let me get…er…um…finish my second joint, as the day gently dims down to green and smudgy, in the warm evening, before everything finally fades to black. What a crap week.
You’ll be unhappy to know that I have just put the beautiful Marty and whoever’s present out on the unburnable rubbish. I quite like that dish, too. But I’ve got far too much stuff, as it is. It’s just been sitting there.
Not so much the beautiful Marty any longer, anyway. That’s what happens when you don’t flop your cock out when you’re young and beautiful… people will put you on the unburnable rubbish as quick as look at you. I still picture him from five years ago, reaching down into his jocks with nothing but a come hither look.
Shake of head. That was a vivid, all hair moving, all muscles flexing, all talking all dancing image. Quite nice really.
Never the less… Cough. Fan myself. Both hands. Clear the throat again.
Big smile.
Hello.
I see no reason why you should subsidise your, clearly hopeless, sister, especially when you are, as you said, getting your good-self home from abroad, as well. Where’s your sister in-law coming from, Gosford? Fucker her! No guilt that’s what I say. Quite frankly, they’ve got a cheek for asking.
What is she doing, living in a garden next to Regents Park Zoo – as I see the homeless sleep in The Fitzroy Gardens every morning, or at least did when I walked that way? (You’d probably need to get on your knees to remember The Fitzroy gardens?)
From what I read about her part in the family legend, I'm assuming it is.
No, I hear you chirp. (Like a Christian)
And she cashed in some of these tickets to go away on a holiday of her own. (I must say I admire her style) So not only hopeless but ungrateful and completely lacking in any sort of guilt.
Why are you losing energy over this?
11.03.05
I smoked too much pot and conked out at the keyboard, last night. That twilight world of turning from the screen just when my head starts to spin only to find that it has gone dark out side and the house is pitch black, with no other lights on. Talk about falling into the void. You gotta love it. Woosh. Tonight I’ve had two joints and I’m tonguing for a third. I’ve played Rock-Star in the lounge room, contemplated a wank, deciding I could do it any time… put some washing on, music is playing, I have sushi and here I am.
A joint, perhaps? You gotta love living on your own. It’s the best. Everyone is really a cunt, present company excluded, when it all comes down to it. (You know the 50% of the world’s population could perish and really, it would be a better place, theory) We’re like male Siamese Fighting Fish. Everyone one in their own bottle, thanks.
Another joint, perhaps?
So I had better get some tippity tapping in quick… as the green wafts around my nostrils... and the room goes on soft focus.
I chucked out the Dutch Boys on Wednesday finally. They came for a night and they stayed for a week. (Matt could have stayed longer, if he’d let me play with his cock. Blond, blue-eyed excepted, big and boofy and beautifully handsome. And nineteen?) I celebrated by buying a bag of pot and, of course, I have been a total recluse ever since. Someone, not unlike, Catweasel. Not only have I screened all calls, I haven’t answer the front door, oh lets say twice. Giggle. Giggle.
It’s been fantastic!
If I won millions in Tattslotto, quite frankly, I’d never see anyone again. He, he, he!
What did all them monks get up to? I hear they are ferocious smokers of the green herb!
It’s a long weekend, I’m not expected back in the mine until Tuesday. Yippee!
You know, it’s nice dancing around in your kitchen, knowing that it’s your own.
I should never live on my own.
But, thank the lordy do dah day that you’ve got email at home. What happened to writing to me again at 8pm, by the way? Yesterday. Are you keeping up? At least it'll start to get warm there soon, if here is anything to go by, summer just sort of conked out about a week or so ago and it's getting cold here all ready. But not like snow, like Melbourne in late summer, completely different thing. What the? What happened there? Secretly, I hate the hot weather if I have to go to work, so I don't complain too much. But people are.
But I digress, you wont have to scuttle out to an internet café in the cold, any longer…er… like Anne Frank, down the alley ways between the houses? Um… Or did she get out? Wasn’t she some famous shut-in? I’m just questioning what happened to my 8pm email, really? Nothing. Zip? Really, nothing at all? After what surely passed for a promise. Not a thing?
Scuttling out in the cold is no longer an excuse, I’ll expect prompt replies from now on… is that what we are saying? (Apparently, that’s what I’m trying to say?)
Is any of this remotely interesting?
Oh…lovely, lovely, lovely, marijuana.
And I’m even listening to Patti Labobo. Truly!
And eating sushi.
All is well with the world.
We had these religious types, in the city, handing out fliers for all things, Jews for Jesus. They looked remarkably evangelical, to me. Gaudy clothes, too much make-up and idiot grins. You know the types, lobotomised by the calling and forever, eternally (sick-makingly) grateful. One of them tried to hand me a flier and I tried to read it without stopping. I glanced at her bright green T-shirt complete with sparkles, stars and bows…
Yes, I’m a believer! She said confidently. (I’m sure I heard an American accent)
It clicked in my brain, what sort of person was accosting me, at the very same moment. I thought, go peddle your poison some place else, which, I have to say, made me giggle within my flinch. The first thing out my mouth was…
You’re an idiot!
The next one I spotted from a distance, so I had time to contemplate my response, as I watched him try and push his fliers onto those who came before me.
As he reached out for me, I said, I’m Satan! At that very moment, my throat clagged up and my voice failed and it came out as a guttural grow. I didn’t flinch, I walked straight ahead.
Another unexpected giggle. What must have I sounded like?
Abuse a Jesus freak a day. That’s my new motto.
I just taunted Tom, when he thought I was having an alone moment, I told him I had pot and I DIDN”T CARE ABOUT ANYTHING. She should be over within the hour.
Lovely, naughty, Friday night. Goodness, what’s a boy to do in a big city with a head full of pot and no need to be anywhere in particular? No work tomorrow.
Perhaps, I should go to the sauna. Perhaps, I should go to the Laird and look for Tony…
I told you about that, didn’t I? Naughty Manny.
Might as well cash in?
Why let an opportunity to go to waste?
What do you reckon?
I haven't spoken to Manny since Saturday and I haven't heard from him since Sunday. Zip. Nothing. Which means he probably went out Sunday night, probably to the Laird, picked up some guy and has been playing with him ever since, if past form is anything to go on.
I kind of hope so, in away. Step out of the way and let whoever through. It would be the most efficient harm-minimising method of moving on, I reckon.
I need more than he has to give.
I'd still rather do the boring bits on my own, with him. It's telling, hey?
It’s a barmy night out. I’ve just been patting the cat on the window sill. If I’d been in New York, I could have been petting the cat on the stoop and Italian skater boy could have stopped and we could have got talking. He’d be from a wealthy family, which he’d never mention, only in the fact that it enable him to go to NYU to study history and literature. He’d have a bike and a loft apartment and a killer smile. (Maybe a single-front terrace in Fitzroy and a sports car) He’d be argumentative, because he’d have something to say…nicely so.
Ha, ha.
(Let’s be real) Tony’s cock would be divine. Down to…gag, gag, gag!
As much as I like Manny, as Tom says, he’s only standing in the way of someone with potential, someone who can make me go wow, with something he may say! Someone who can affect my way of thinking, who can share with me a bigger world, who can take me places I wouldn’t otherwise go. I promise, I’ll do the very same for him.
Of course, it’s me acting by not acting, again. It’s me taking the passive way out.
I haven’t missed him because I’ve had a bag of pot and the house to myself. (I’ve got some very slimy videos, you’d be proud)
I haven’t been to the gym once, like I said I would when I stopped smoking. No cigarettes still, but. But straight to the mull bowl as soon as I get home. How did I get back here? It’s not a successful position to be giving up smoking again, from.
Damn!
And I was doing so well.
Another joint, perhaps?
I think I want ice-cream!
christian
