I've drunk nearly two litres of orange juice - freshly squeezed, pulp included - to drown my tonguing for a little red vino. I’ve been a bit salivatory for it all day, since I saw tonight’s bottles on the bench this morning. Who’d have fucken thought? Me, the last of the non-drinkers.

The orange juice seems to have worked though.

I’m going to have to steer clear of it next week, have a break. Me and Shane are still getting through a bottle a night. Sometimes more. So easy. Any wonder my bike riding isn’t having any effect on my belt buckle.

I’m getting back into Doctor Who. I was obsessed as a kid, but I haven’t watched any of the new series'. I went and bought the first series and I’m taking Shane there with me. Red wine, Doctor Who, does it get better?

The first doctor of the new series, Christopher Eccleston, is kind of hot. There is something cheekily sexy about him. Great smile.

David Tennant is okay too, in the you-like-your-brother kind of way.

Really? You think I am overdressed?

Do you want to wrestle?

Smile and the world smiles with you

First Morning to Myself

Oh my Gard! (said in an annoying American accent) my first morning since David has moved out. It is so nice to have the house to myself. Morning solitude, it's bliss. Shane's at work. Peace and quiet.

No David demanding my attention. Look at me, look at me, look at me. No David telling me what he's doing. This fabulous thing and that fabulous thing. No David wanting to chat. What are you doing? Am I anoying you? No David telling me his life story first up. Now back to me, back to me. No David putting the TV on to eat his breakfast, and then leaving it blaring when he goes back to his room. No David crashing about. No David talking on his phone. No David putting Tibetan fucking monk chants on loud, crashing symbols, chanting, going OM, lighting incense to appease the gods, spirits, spooks, the eternal, higher power, universal life force.

I'm the only one who is going to be home during the day. Yay! I'm not going to live with a non-nine to fiver again, I want it to myself. Not that I am looking for anyone to move in. David worked nights and weekends, so he was always home during the day.

Everything just feels so different. How do I explain it? Peace and quiet and I know it's all mine, all day - of course, I have to go see my mum - to enjoy. The world seems like mine, which it's not going to be interupted any time soon.

I told Beck and Mark that it still felt like a failure, of sorts. You know, David and I have known each other for a long time... They both told me that I was soft...  almost with exactly the same tone, roll of the eyes and tut of the tongue.

 

Yes, I like you the best, too

I did go to church. The roof did cave in. The priest got such a shock he pulled his finger right out of the choir boy's arse. It made a plop sound.

 

The gorgeous Jaguar mk7

Free as the Wind

Duty stops you from doing what you like. Duty kills the free spirit

Oh Paris – I know, I wouldn't normally be swayed by this, but the trashiness was just way too much to resist

You been wondering what's happened to Paris Hilton now her 15 minutes is up? Well, she's been promoting a beer brand in Brazil. And she got right into the spirit of things so it would seem.
In town for a pre-Carnivale party, Paris sampled a large portion of the product, Devassa beer, herself. Accordingly, she decided to take her spokeswoman role to the limit, by dancing wildly onstage, throwing her head around and baring her g-string to the world through her very short, tight, see-through dress.

Um?

Oh, I don't know? I seem to be having trouble writing at the moment, so maybe a little trashy pop culture could do as a filler.

My writing mojo seems to have left me, so maybe I might just do other things for a while. Pictures, music, crap, anything.

Maybe nothing.

We'll see.


To tell you the truth, I've been struggling since I gave up pot. That's the truth. Seems it was my muse, it allowed me to be creative, relax and just write. Now my writing inspiration is like a puckered arse. You'd think after six months I'd be... problem was, is, I hit it hard over New Year.  Now I seem to be back to square one.
Maybe, it's time to go visit the doc for those happy pills he tried to give me last year when I first stopped and felt the blues? He said go on them for a short time and it would help even it all out, smooth it all over, heal it all.

I'll see.


Been hitting the red wine hard too... trouble is, it doesn't make me creative, it just makes me pissed. Bigger problem is that, where I never really liked alcohol much, I seem to be liking it more and more. I'm getting the taste for it...
Speaking of which...
... have a geeze at Paris above, that's me most nights around midnight. Big smile! Ha, ha. If only for a few lazy hundred million, I too could fall down in style.

By the way, what's happened to the spell checker on this new version of editor? I thought I'd find it by now, but it remains a fucken mystery?

Mind Games

Some times when I get up in the middle of the night and I slip quietly into the bathroom half asleep and I sit down on the toilet, I sound like a girl pissing there in the dark.

It sends a shiver up a boy's spine.

Openly Gay

You know, I so object to the term "openly gay." It's like there is a qualification still needed, like there is an alternative reality. I mean, we know there is an alternative reality, but it is a reality upheld by the people who use the term "openly gay."

It implies that there is something daring about being out and proud. How dare he? If you like, the very use of this term puts gay people back in their box, don't get above yourself, as we know most "of your kind" aren't open about your perversion. At the extreme case, it stops people from being openly gay as it implies there is a more normal state of being for gay people.

It is objectionable.

Let's face it, the only thing that is "openly gay" is your arse when you are on your knees taking a cock up it.

Alexander McQueen flowers that look like butterflies

Oh my god, everyone is spoon fed now a days. The do-gooders are winning, taking control of the nut house, with these kinds of politically correct messages at the end of every suicide story. Poor old Australia, we’re being weighed down by the rules.

"Readers seeking support and information about suicide prevention can contact Lifeline on 13 11 14 or SANE Helpline on 1800 18 SANE (7263) or visit http://www.beyondblue.org.au/."

Why are we so frightened of suicide? Isn't the ultimate act of taking control of your life.

The truth is that maybe we should all suicide at a certain age? You know, when the vitality goes, the life wanes and the fun stops. I guess, that intellectually, could be different ages for different people.

But, what on earth possess us to want to be half-crippled eighty year olds? I don’t know.

"Not dead yet!" we say as we hobble to the corner. Can't see, can't hear, can't remember, but still fucken alive.

 

Crying

The last time I cried... was when somebody told me the truth.

Why Is It So Humid So Early In The Day?

It was too hot to walk today. Sticky, wet. I'm so sick of feeling that feeling as I walk off up Gertrude Street; sweat glistening across my chest, I can feel it shine. I can feel it drip.

So I caught the tram. Oh the tram boys, how I've missed you so. Suits. Crisp white shirts. Ties.

Brushed hair. Smiles. White teeth. Freshly showered, you can almost smell the talc. Pants that are tight on the thigh and which fit across their sexy arses. Mm, mm!

Sitting down opposite, the hot wogboy in a pinstripes. The lines on his trousers converged right on his plump nuts. I could barely stop myself from looking.

The cute Aussie standing next to me seated, blue pants tight across his bulge. I would have only have to have moved my head centimetres. Slurp.

The gorgeous Asian boy with the sexy arse. I'd tongue that until he moaned, no need to be asked twice. He caught me looking. He tried not to smile, but he did. Which made me smile, even when I tried not to.

Bye Bye, it's Been Rich and Real

The heat makes me cranky, I know, I feel it, somebody stop me. I’m cranky.

David's gearing up to move out. He’s leaving soon. One week.

David moved his excess shit into the spare room when he moved in, I should have known better. The agreement was that it would be temporary and while it was there David would pay extra rent. 

Neither of those things happened.

Then the adorable Sebastian Ciccio wanted a room for his year in Melbourne away from Italy. I wanted him to move in.

I got cranky when David wouldn’t move his shit out of the spare room so Sebastian could have the room.

David couldn’t cope with me being cranky with him, with his me, me, me attitude. There is so little natural generosity, from being a spoilt child. I'm really not sure how that really works as a teacher? It is the glory bestowed upon him by his students, I am guessing.

So, he took himself off to somewhere where someone wasn’t cranky with him, namely Marg’s place.

You know, the quirks that you found charming at the beginning of a relationship (living together for 3 years, which is the relationship I am talking about, as we've known each other for many more years than that) are usually the ones that shit you the most at the end. It's true. The slow burn, continual, incessant focus on himself. It eventually wears you down.

The humidity makes me cranky, I know. I gnash my teeth in the heat, I can't help it.

Cup Runneth Over

Are you only wealthy if you feel wealthy?

What do you think I am going to do? You can watch, if you like?