Writer's group. 10am. Print my story. Daylesford for chill out. Shit, I guess I need to pack some stuff. Fuck! I'm already running late. Crap! Don't panic. Get in the shower. No, don't have that j you are so tempted to smoke. Ah! (Get off blogger! Now!)
We're staying in the caravan park, so there's no issues about driving. Campbell is bringing his old caravan as a crash pad. The others started two days ago, they'll be in fine form when I get there.
Someone asked me the other day, "Well, what do you think about Jesus Christ?" when they were questioning my heathen outlook on the history of the world.
I responded, quick as a flash, "I reckon he was just my type. Nice Arab boy. I would have had my hand up his toga in no time."
Well, by the wide-eyed look I received in response, I realised, maybe, I may have misunderstood the question.
Apparently, a Bro-Crush is when two straight boys are attracted to each other.
You know what Y-Gen straight boys are like, more bisexual than their straight bros who have come before them. They are way more likely to have a Bromance than their predecessor's.
Y-Gen girl Scarlet was telling me, that it's becoming something they do. Y-Gen girlfriends want to watch boy on boy, in the same way that in the past their boyfriends have wanted to watch them with another girl.
Scarlet's boyfriend Jack had to put out too to see Scarlet with another chick.
"He wants to see that, sure, but it works both ways," Scarlet said.
"And did he?" I asked.
She smiled kind of dirty."Yeah. A party boy. Romny."
"A party boy?"
"Well, med student, first year uni. High achiever. Bright enough star for Jack to be fascinated." She smiled again. She was beautiful when she smiled. "It was hot!"
Scarlet said she didn't, really, expect Jack would do it again, the same way she felt about doing it with another woman. "But if the situation presents itself again." She laughed, kicking her legs into the air, she was talking about herself as much as Jack. "Maybe?"
Okay, as the rain falls down, pitter pat, it's D day? That short story is coming out and it's going to get rewritten to with an inch of it's life. The beginning is all wrong. There is too much dialogue and not enough narrative, always my problem. Actually, to be a glass half full person, always my style. I naturally write in dialogue. (When I was younger, I strangely, naturally wrote in 2nd person, but that is neither here or there now) I should have been working on it all week. Why do I do this? (Because you work better under pressure)
Of course, a new problem has reared it's ugly head, I'm off to chill out on Sunday, Daylesford, day picnic, dance party Sunday night. Me and Shane. However, my writer's meeting is 10 am Sunday. Hands in the air, cursing skywards! I can't cancel again. Grimace. Oh, I have to cancel. Big eyes. Head shake. No, I can't cancel, if I ever want to go to this writer's group again. (And I do) But, it would mean I'd have to drive myself, midday Sunday and not get a lift. Dance party. Car. Country roads. I so didn't want to be in that situation. Grrr!
I was at my mums early, which is always good as it means I can get home with plenty of the day left... to fritter, so it would seem this last week.
Maybe it's the change in the weather?
I just wanted to perve at Louis Garrel, again. The French actor who has trouble keeping his cloths on in his movies. I've got the names of two more of his movies to check him out in. Is that a bit schoolboyish? Really, these photos have no relevance to today in any way, other than my dirty little thoughts. I'm off to the DVD shop to find those movies.
I think you can pretty much tell where my writing is at.
David has an older divorced sister, C, who has some divorced guy who comes over and gives it to her when she's feeling the itch. Apparently, he's good at it. So much so that afterwards, she feels so good, so pepped up, so full of the verve for living she gets into that kitchen and she cooks up a storm like a mad thing. And she sends it over to us. Home made Greek cooking, none of us are going to turn it down. Dolmades, moussaka, lamb, I'm sure you get the picture. (There's only one thing I like more than Greek boys...)
Now, we're trying to eat healthily. Sensible diet. No deserts, as Mark W would say. Shane and I, that is. David eats anything and everything.
David arrives home with a giant platter, Saturday night, held out with both hands.
"It must have been a marathon," says David. He whips the tinfoil off...
"Carnage!" I say. "Jasus Xist!"
"Lucky to walk again," says David.
"Fuck me!" says Shane. "Can I have this guys number?"
We stare down at a platter covered in rocky road slice, cheesecake and poppy seed cake. Food for fucking days!
OMG! We've been eating it ever since.
I'm heading to the toilet nightly to practice my Bulimia skills. Three fingers right down and there's no gagging.
Ivy, moss, snot
rancid meat.
Parsley, lime, peppermint
mowed grass.
Inebriated. Jealous. Mould.
Slimy feet.
Bottle. Glass. Sea.
Poisoned world.
Country side. Maple. Deciduous.
Verdant void.
Inexperience.
Gone.
We danced at The Market until 3am, when I didn't want to dance any more. Kane didn't want to leave, some of his friends were there dancing with us, so I left on my own.
Yeah, great, I thought, as I stood in Commercial Road in a wet t-shirt with my hand in the air on my own. That's, actually, not my idea of a night out with a guy I like. Maybe, I'll go see the movie, next time, he's just not that into you, today, 'cause that's how it made me feel. Childish, I guess, but that's how I felt in the back of the taxi as it raced up Hoddle Street in the cool night air towards home.
I was thankful I had one of those maniac taxi drivers who dodged and weaved through the traffic and got me home in record time.
I rolled a joint, after not smoking all week, and went to bed.
I lay in bed, reconsidering my choices in life. Kane lost so many points tonight, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep.
I’m feeling that depression that I felt last time I quit smoking pot. I asked my doctor about it back then and he said it would pass. And it did, a week or so.
It just makes me feel like life is worthless and there’s not really any point continuing. Nothing is important, every thing is a drag. It’s an awful feeling really. Luckily, it will pass, like it did last time, actually, this time last year. But how do the people cope who suffer from this continually? I’d be ending it, I can tell you, life isn't that special to always be feeling like this. It’s quite horrible. Debilitating. I can understand depressives leaping off bridges.
Now, I'm going for a bike ride to try and get whatever poison out of my system. Make my lungs gasp for breath, make my breathing rasp in my throat. It's the only way to feel normal again.
Then I'm off to Milk with Kane. Then dinner.
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