Out of Our Misery

I took another day off, I hate my (work) life. I decided if I don’t have the guts to resign, I can, at least, use up all my sick days.

David was home too, he wanted me to wake him before I left for the office, so he didn’t spend the day asleep. He was awake, lying in bed, when I flung his bedroom door open.

Wake up. It’s later than you think. I took a sickie.

Why?

I’m so bored, I could, I could…

Could what?

Kill myself.

Do you want to? Let’s just do it.

Okay, let’s do it

How would we do it?

With knives…

On the couch…

Slit our wrists…

With scalpels…

Our arms right up to here.

Yes, let’s do it.

So there’s blood…

Lots of blood!

Come on.

I want to…

We could paint our faces with big, red, lip-stick smiles…

Yes…

With thick eye-liner and great big fake eyelashes…

Yes!

And prop ourselves up on the couch…

Smiles painted on…

With our arms our here…

Bleeding…

For when Shane comes back from Mardi Gras

Could you imagine…

Him, off his chops so badly…

Confronted by that…

Welcome home…

Happy Mardi Gras!

We could get balloons…

And streamers…

Shave Missy and paint her face with a big, red, lip-stick smile too…

Three days later.

Oo, pretty.

Hmmm, could you imagine…

Shane, still off his face?

Happy Mardi Gras!

Both cackle hysterically

Teach him for going to Mardi Gras without us.

It would sure show him!

Yeah!

Yeah!

 

Yesterday's Women

Yesterday's woman were strong women who not only had jobs, but careers. Who raised kids and ran households and had successful marriages. Who bought houses, and cars, and who helped their husbands and children get through life without complaint.

my mum had 3 kids, worked full time and never complained about her lot, as did most of her professional women friends who all had 3, or 4 kids

Today's woman are whiny, namby-pamby woman who think they are incredible for combining children with part time hours after paid maternity leave, expecting the whole world to pat them on the back and to make allowances for them.

I'm not trying to put women down, but they do seem to complain about their lot, more so. Don't they? It's hard being a mother. There is never enough time in the day for me. It just how it seems to me. I never heard my mother say such things. Maybe, I was too young.

Lying Nude

Deep in the Valley

Stocky boys tend to have deeper arse cracks. All that man flesh, all that hair; hand deep into his bum, feel him right inside. Yum.

Kiss him behind the ears. Feel his back arch, as his butt touches you.

He'll moan, a bit, to get you in the mood. Feel him relax, as you break the seal. His breathing changes. The rhythm steadies. He starts to sweat. Buck. Push back. Find for his lips, red and ripe; his neck stretched to the max; hard strong. Hand to his throat, strong, whiskers, Adam's Apple. How muscular he feels... as he goes over the edge. Stands upright, shaking and quivering.

Boyfriends

I've always fallen for people who have lots of confidence, lots of charisma. I've always been the sweet, silent type next to the confident, loud gregarious one. I've always been the rock, to the flying bird. I've always been private school boy, type, while they've been Guliver.

They've always explored and showed me wondrous things that have made me say "wow." And I've always let them - given them freedom, given them support, given them love and something to believe in.

I gave them logic and grounding and permission and a sense of themselves that allowed them to believe that they were beautiful people who were very loved. They were all handsome men, I, somehow, confirmed it.

I've given them intellect and interesting things to think about. Together we've always been able to conquer the world.

It's a Boy Thing

I like, He was a little light on his feet, almost as much as I like Shirt Lifter.

(I love Shirt Lifter, as it takes us right to the heart of being gay, don't you think?)

Friends of Dorothy's is universally liked, surely? Because we were all like the lion back then, we just needed courage.

Pooh puncher, or donut maker, I'm not so keen on.

A fart as a poofter's love call leaves me really cold. 

Wednesday Wednesday Wednesday

I've taken another sickie. That stomach of mine? Once I get a taste for the day-off there is no stopping me. I called in from my bed on my mobile. I couldn't even stand to get out of bed, this morning. I just called and then pulled the doona back up and took more zzzz's, no guilt. It can't be good for me, feeling that way. I might take my coffee and go back there. The day is mine.

I worked out that I'm, some thing like, 2 years ahead with my mortgage payments. It's why straight people hate us so - no kids and all that disposable income. So why am I working so hard? At something that makes me unhappy. It makes no sense.

I can feel a resignation coming on. I wish I had the guts, you know. I've just given up pot and tobacco, I can probably do anything.

And the rain comes down and the sun disappears, like a blokes testes in cold water. A cool breeze blows in through my balcony doors, it's bracing, thrilling. I can do anything I want. I could get used to this. Nobody is going to thank me for working, I don't have any kids. There is no prize at the end of it, just dementia and incontinence. We are all equal in the old people's home in the end, no matter what we did during our lives, with only our regrets to keep us company.

I love the cool Melbourne breeze after a stinking hot day. It's invigorating. I clears the sweat. It blows all of the head aches away.

All I have to do is write something, a moderate seller, some thing successful. Those two clairvoyants always said I would. Two years to write a best seller and I'd never have to work again - well, go to work again to a job that makes me unhappy, where I help other people with their wealth.

All of my tutors - well, most of my tutors at uni - said I had it in me.

"You are as good a writer as any one," they said. "The thing that distinguishes successful writers, for the most part, from ones that don't make it, is actually doing it. A bit of luck and being in the right place, of course, doesn't hurt, but mostly it is believing in yourself and sitting down, putting in the time and writing. Sticking at it."

I might head out for breakfast. I might go for a bike ride.

Kiss me and wish me good luck.

Time to believe in myself and step forward fearlessly.

Wednesday Wednesday

I've taken another sickie. That stomach of mine?

I worked out that I'm 2 years ahead with my mortgage payments.

I've taken the day off just because I couldn't be fagged getting out of bed.

It's why straight people hate us so - no kids and all that disposable income.

I called in from bed on my mobile. I might take my coffee and go back there.

I can feel a resignation coming on.

And the rain comes down and the sun disappears like a blokes testes in cold water.

I could get used to this.

I love the cool Melbourne breeze after a stinking hot day.

All I'd have to do is write a best seller, those clairvoyants always said I would.

I might head out for breakfast.

Two years to write a best seller and I'd never have to work again.

I might go for a bike ride.

Kiss the salt mines good bye.

 

Lazy Tuesday

I took today off work just because I could, really. I'm feeling a bit anxious about every thing. Probably, a reaction to the anaesthetic. Wink. Better rest up. No use having a, um, er, relapse.

No use rushing back to work in times of illness. Why do any of us do it? Oh yes, money. Surprised look. :o

So, I'm of to The Fitzroy Gardens to read my book, for a few hours under the trees and then Smith Street for lunch and then I reckon I might go hunt down a boy for the afternoon.

Sounds like a plan to me.

Sounds like a nice day. smile.

5 hours later...

Ah beautiful. The sun, the sky, the park, the dappled sunlight scattered across the green, green grass. I ate fruit salad and drank coffee on the terrace at the cafe, in the middle of the park under the shade of the elms, and read the Age from cover to cover. It was gentle and quiet and serene.

There was a lady with two Ridgebacks at the next table, she was dainty and the dogs were well behaved. They had some kind of muzzles on, but the owner told the waitress they were just a way of controlling the dogs while they walked and that they weren't aggressive at all. There were a couple of mothers with preschoolers, who didn't annoy the crap out of me, surprisingly. I wondered about their little brats muzzles when they first walked up, but they played quietly as their mother's drank coffee and chatted.

There were joggers and soccer players and walkers and readers and sitters and snoozers all enjoying the glorious day. There were women with prams and elderly couples with each other and workmen with utes and girls with sun hats and Asian tourists with cameras and two men in suits holding hands - there really were, well, it is Fitzroy, after all, they looked adorable walking through the park.

I lay back and read my book under the elms. Some thing real. Bliss.

Day off Monday

Fuck! How hot is is? Day off work, nice. Always nice.

But, of course, I went for my gastroscopy. Can't have a day off just because. Oh no, that would never do.

I walked to the clinic. I left early, so I stopped in the Fitzroy Gardens just to enjoy the morning. There were lots of people around, doing much more worth while things than the 9 to 5 gig. Drinking coffee and having breakfast. Reading under the shade of the trees. Running their dogs, riding their bikes. Just walking and enjoying the sun.

The clinic has terrible signage and, of course, I didn't take any paperwork with me. Well, it was Jolimont Road, which is about as long as a tidily weenie. Where the fuck was it? Tick, tick, tick, to my appointment, as I walked up and down. I couldn't find it. After sitting so luxuriously in the Fitzroy Gardens and all, de-stressing, I started to stress. Finally, I saw what looked like a career secretary, out having a fag, who whirled me around and pointed me in the right direction pronto, with a, "Yeah luv, right over there." Long fake fingernailed fingers indicating across the road.

The staff were all so nice. I felt nothing, as the actress said to the bishop. The last thing I remember was, "You'll just feel an overwhelming sense of relaxation."

"My friends say I'm overwhelmingly relaxed now."

"Well, you shouldn't be needing this procedure then..."

I was completely out to it. Felt nothing, knew less.

Then is was, "Christian, Christian, are you okay to get to your feet?"

They gave me a cup of tea and a biscuit, like the blood bank and made me wait for a while, propped up in a Jason Recliner, with a rug. I wanted to tell them I'd driven more out of it after dance parties, but they made me wait for my ride, before I could leave the building.

"Every things okay," said the Doc. "No ulcer." But they did take biopsies. I wondered why, but I was a bit too scattered to question him.

Apparently, I have oesophagitis, reading the paperwork they gave me, when I got home. Whatever that is?

Path to Enlightenment

We all spend our lives trying to make ourselves bigger on the earth, master it, become powerful over it, when true enlightenment comes from making ourselves smaller, a part of the earth, just one part of something bigger, living within.

Passed our Prime

It's kind of sad that the pinnacle of human endeavour happened something like fifty years ago. Sure, we have better gadgets now a days - things we don't need, for the most part, things with tremendous land fill potential. But nothing really new.

In the area of medicine, I have to agree there have been huge advances, but in nearly every other aspect of life there has been a falling away.

We've passed our Golden Age, probably in the mid Twentieth Century.

We can get around the planet quicker, to see the devastation first hand - poisoned skies, poisoned seas, endangered species, starving people.

If you are really lucky, you may get to see a loony religious halfwit blow themselves and others up.

But generally, nothing has really changed in fifty years - mum, dad, two kids, a house in the suburbs, two cars, parents go to work, children go to school. They go to the beach at Xmas, after presents, dinner and a sleep.

Kids grow up, get married and put their parents in a home.

Repeat.

Peanuts

A tour bus driver is driving with a bus load of seniors down a highway when he is tapped on his shoulder by a little old lady. She offers him a handful of peanuts, which he gratefully accepts, as he is a little peckish.

After about fifteen minutes, she taps him on his shoulder and she hands him another handful of peanuts.

The seniors are having a lovely time, chatting and laughing, as they head out into the country.

Eventually, when she is about to hand him another batch, he asks the little old lady, 'Why don't you eat the peanuts yourself?'

'We can't chew them because we have no teeth', she replies.

The puzzled driver asks, 'Why do you buy them, then?'

The old lady replies, 'We just love the chocolate around them.'

My Valentine

Shane asked if it was wrong to give your boyfriend head to see if he develops symptoms of gonorrhoea to see if that clag in your throat is an STD? Shane cleared his throat. That I probably, um, he cleared his throat again, picked up down the beat while jogging.

He smiled.

I laughed.

Sure, why not, I said? That’s what boyfriends are for, surely.

Absolutely, said Shane.

Matt would be a good sport about it.

Well, it’s cheaper, quicker and more time efficient, said Shane, than going to the doctor, myself.

Besides, I said, Matt would make a great crash test dummy.

He’s my very own crash test dummy, said Shane, and I'd love him for it.

And you could get him to get you a script when he goes to the doctor with his very own drippy cock…

You catch on quick, said Shane smiling. But I always knew that about you.

We both laughed. If Tom had still been around, he would have said the evil cackle of life long friends.

 

The Way it Makes Me Feel

I love the wind. Always have. I like it blowing strongly, the stronger the better. It makes me feel powerful. Alive. A living being. In the moment. In the universe. Of this world.

I love it when it is so powerful that, when I'm leaning into it, it is holding me up. Arms out stretched. Let go. Balancing from the waist down.

I love the cool. I love the crisp.

I never understand people who say they don't like it. Ginger horses and all that. You know, there are so many people who talk about it like they have an aversion to it. Giddy like a drunk. Why? Because it messes up their hair, may be? Blows a little dust and we all know how we all hate messed hair and a little dust, now a days. Perception is more important than feeling.

I like the cool. I like the freshness. I like the cleanliness, of it. I like how it feels on my skin. I like the way it makes me feel all over. Tactile, rather than presentation.

Touch my skin. Feel.

Switch off.

I like my sheets to be cold and crisp when I get into my bed. The cool wind of the night. I like the cotton to be cool as it touches me. Bracing, cold, alive, invigorating. Wrap myself up crisp, for a night of rest, a cool slide into the dark, for a fresh tilt at snooze.

It makes me feel alive. I like the fact that is stops me from thinking and allows me to feel. Almost, a little meditation. Lay very still and feel the nerve ends tingle. Clear your mind.

Change for the Better?

All of my friends are telling me to resign. Get out of the salt mines and do something worth while with my life. David read me my astrological moon reading, or something and it was frighteningly, word for word, as if it had been written about me.

Have faith, just resign, be more creative, believe.

Rachel says she needs someone to do her books. (Gads, do some one's book work, it's been a while) I could also work in the restaurant, if I wanted, part time. Like old times, she says. When we were uni students and we did the poor waiter thing, together. But I haven't been a broke uni student for a long time. I'm not that person any more. Although, it would be easy, except for the lack of money, natch. Relaxed. No responsibility. No high-flying corporate world back-stabbing bullshit.

Retire from the rat race, leave all the pointy-faced rodents, that make up the corporate maze, behind. The lying, the cheating, the point scoring, the scheming. Did I say lying? Awful people, who'd sell you down the river, as quick as look at you, to come out on top, to end up looking good, in the end.

We have an executive director of HR and Marketing who will tell whatever lie it takes, burn whoever, to make herself look good. She doesn't even hide her contempt for her lesser worker. Do as I say. Make me look good. Take the blame for me, unashamedly, as she connives her stay at the top. And anyone who dares to disagree, leave the fold, she completely ignores them. Go over her head and you are asking to die, professionally. We call her the golly, as she has lots of curly black hair and a rat face. She's truly awful. How do these people get salaries of five hundred grand when everything they do is based on untruths, spin and lies? She's a blood sucker, to be sure.

I counter her with the C.E.O. if ever I want to go over her head. It's risky, but effective. The C.E.O. loves me, as I do her.

Sell the house, have a life changing moment, be brave, says Rachel. Follow your dreams. Get away from the awful people. Do something that is real. Write.

I knew I was going to have a stack of emails waiting for me Monday, regarding a problem we were having, the Brisbane office was having, from Friday.

Oh, I was dreading the stupidity that would be waiting for me. As I headed into the office this morning, I said to my favourite mate @ work, Stacey,

"Someone needs to go berserk in the Brisbane office with a gun," I said. "That would fix it."

"You’re terrible," she said. Muriel, I thought. She laughed. "You shouldn't say things like that." Even if I was kidding.

"Not as terrible as them," I said. "Clueless, unashamed, bitches."

We both laughed and I wondered if I should rethink the whole work thing, if that is how I am feeling Monday morning.

And right on queue, the Brisbane office bought up every example of their incompetence and blamed it on me. Just like that. Without a care for logic, in their usual, clueless way. It's breath taking that they just don't get it. Even more breath taking that they don't get that they don't get it.

Attack is the best form of defence, I guess.

The National HR director said she would have weekly meetings with me, when I threatened to resign. "No Christian, don't do that," she said. "I'll sort them out for you, personally."

I worked late.

Sexy Steve was working late, too. He had those black pants on that cup him so well at the front and which slide down over him beautifully at the back. Sexy? Yes, I'd say he is sexy. He came in and chatted to me for a while. He's pretty to look at.