Thursday, December 14, 2006

I will deliver. You know I'm a forgiver.

My phone just rang.


Hello, I just called to remind you that people are psychotic and you should be careful at all times.


And I hate them.

Haha, okay. Are you okay?




I walk to the park to have another conversation with myself, but I'm not there. All around me are children, young couples pushing prams, younger couples holding hands, runners pushing themselves further toward...whatever they're running toward. None of these things interest me, instead I take the time to listen to the sighing of the trees, to watch them lean toward each other in the wind, leaves and branches gently caressing their neighbour, whispering tree secrets to each other. There are ducks in the pond, I like watching them. And beside the water, on a seat, is a withered old man, staring straight ahead, his hands on his lap. I can't tell whether he is happy or sad, he looks so still. Though his eyes are bright and wide open and unmoving. I look 360 degrees, one last time in case I see myself. But I don't, so I turn my back on everything and walk away.

The next day I return and again I am not there. I must be busy, though I can't imagine what I am doing. A song I like hits my iPod and I turn it up and lie back in the dried grass and watch the clouds form strange dreams above me. Each time the chorus hits I throw my arms wide open and form grass angel indentations. I feel alive. Though this stomach has not let up for six months now. The song ends and I do a single sit up and cross my legs as I observe the park. The old man is there again, just as still. I think, is that me? But I know it is not. I take the headphones out and let the morning bird chatter soundtrack me instead. It's good to be in the green, it's good to feel your feet in the earth, to reach beside you and dig your fingernails into the dirt. Later that night, someone will look at my nails and say, that's disgusting! Don't you ever clean your nails? and I will try to explain that I do, but I needed to feel the soil stain tarnish of terra firma, and I needed it inside me.

On the third day I am walking faster toward the park for I need to know if the old man still sits there. I have no idea how I came to be so prepossessed, but the compulsion drives me nonetheless. I stride and scamper through the traffic haunted by thoughts. I need him to be there and I don't know why. My fear is that he is gone and I won't understand. My fear is that I won't understand.

They prove unfounded for rounding the bend and eyeing the trees I see him. Unmoved and still staring and even the ducks are unafraid for they form a semi circle around his feet. His hands remain on his lap, his eyes seem to stare straight at me, though his posture is unaltered. I don't know why but I walk directly toward him. The birds are still, the trees are mute and there is not a person in sight.

Hello, I say. Do you mind if I sit here?

He does not reply, simply stares. I do not register a blink.

I sit. The ducks scarry away, over the edge and into the pond and create tiny ripples as they skim across the glass water.

I couldn't help but notice you sitting here these last few days. Is this your favourite place? It is mine. I often come here to talk to myself and let nature cast her perspective over me.

No response.

You see, I say and I'm leaning forward now my hands gripping each other long lost brothers in a tight embrace. You see, everyday I wake up and I seem to have a lot to think about, but perhaps I think too much and really each day I should just wake up and be and take action and move and run and create and talk but instead I find myself sitting in this park, much as yourself, and I listen to the trees and I try to hear the answer and...

My life story is spilling from me now. Words tumble and fly from my clumsy mouth as I spit and contort in some sort of self cleansing ritual to this silent old man. I feel tears waterfall down my cheeks, I feel heat and passion burn in my gut and anger rise in my throat as tale by tale I confess my sins. And I don't know why.

When I am done I turn to face him and he remains frozen. Staring ahead.

The park is silent now.

Are you okay? I ask.


Are you okay?

I don't even think, but my hand reaches out for his shoulder and I stare into his bright green eyes and just as I make contact with him, he gently, slowly, leans away from me. Then topples off the chair and falls to the grass.

It's then that I notice the smell.

When the ambulance arrives they ask me questions. Did I know him? How long had he been there? Name, address, did I have any details whatsoever?

I answer blankly, but I am shaken. I could've sworn he was alive. I could've sworn he was listening. This old man, the vessel of my confessions, who listened silently, then took them all to the grave. My own personal Jesus.


The feeling comes slowly in the morning then burns bright through the afternoon before dulling to a gentle ache each and every single night. Yesterday was the first time I'd noticed that it had actually been there for a long, long time. Does everyone live like this? How come I carry this around? No wonder I'm always writing and drinking and trying to escape. When will it go away?


I have no more news on my escape but the fire for it intensifies each damn day.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

The leaves have got you thinking, about the first time you fell.

Conversation yesterday:

So, what are you?

I'm a Capricorn, but all the other shit..the accessories if you will, are all in Sagittarius, so I'm like a Centaur-infused-Goat.

Well then, there you go. You're not just Earth, you're Fire and Earth...


Like a volcano, volcanoes are fire and earth.

Ha. Yeah, you said it...throw me some o' dem virgins!

The thing with volcanos are, they're ancient, they built everything that the rest of us stand on, but they're from another time. Nowadays, people are frightened of what's inside you, frightened of passion, of fire, frightened that the volcano will come alive again, frightened of what you can do, and how you can change the earth around you.

Hmmm. I think I must've been been dormant for a while.

I think you have too.

But I can feel the rumblings of something big.

This is good.

I think I like the whole volcano analogy. I mean, I like being a volcano. All ceremony and know Pomp aye.

Dude, that was terrible.

I know. But shut up, or I'll get all hot lava on you. ROWR.

I'm going.

Ok bye.


When I was young, I spent most every night sitting beside my mother as she drank wine and listened to sad love songs. I would sleep for an hour or so, until I heard the stereo grow louder and louder and I knew that Little fish was sitting there on her own crying and relating to Foriegner or Chicago or Air Supply or The Eagles. I would simply walk out there and sit beside her and she would hold my hand and apologise and say, "he is the love of my life Matty, I don't know what to do..." and I was too simple back then to understand that he was married and had been simply using my mother as a mistress, a convenient escape from the mundane existence of his marriage. She loved him though, loved him as I love people now. Loved in the face of reality, loved in spite of reality. Believed in a greater power, a different world, where if you squeezed your eyes tight and hoped and prayed, or simply LOVED as hard as you possibly could, then it would all work out. It never did for her. It simply never did.

So back in those days, all I could do, was love her like no-one else did. And when she had drunk herself to sleep, I would take the glass out of her hand, and gently walk her to her bed. And I would let the final verse play of the song before I switched the stereo off.

Ooh, another love has come and gone
Ooh, and the years keep rushing on
I remember what you told me before you went out on your own:
’sometimes to keep it together, we got to leave it alone.’
So you can get on with your search, baby, and I can
Get on with mine
And maybe someday we will find , that it wasn’t really
Wasted time

I don't remember much more about that era of my youth. But I remember vowing never to let Love destroy me. And though my shoulders have slumped on occasion, and I have stayed in bed for days, or drank myself numb, or fucked myself stupid, I have kept a tight hold on the most important thing. My eyes, that have been called The Sea, have never looked defeated, nor lost their cheerful spark. And they won't. This I swear to you now Susie Q*

*That's my mum.


The analogy of Australia as Alcatraz tickles me just so. But like Clint Eastwood I'm formulating a plan and it's getting more and more detailed each day. I take notes, I sketch the walls and study the currents and file away at the bars in the window that hold this caged soul. Each day I receive messages from across the sea, hope, beautiful distant hope, and each day I draw strength from the fact that once the Birdman flies, he will find freedom a most precious treasure.


Once someone told me, I had to "get over" the death of my mum. That I hadn't properly "mourned" and still had "issues". This is the anniversary of her death. Seven years now. I think I've turned out just fine. And I don't think I ever want to get over it thankyou. She was a beautiful, sad, lonely soul and I have made many of the same mistakes she did. But I am also me, The B, and keeping her alive in me is an inspiration to adventures beyond.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Never mistake motion for action.

I haven't talked to myself for a while, so when I see myself in the park I smile. It's a conversation that's long overdue.


Hey. Whatcha got for me?

Well, I was thinking about Love...


Shuddup fucko. I was thinking about Love, and I think I hit on something.

Go on.

Well, I was thinking, that the WAY you love, is representative not of the person you are loving, but of yourself. If you love someone beyond life, as though your very being cannot exist without them, if you curse and cry and laugh and fly and explode with sex and giggles at the very thought of someone, I think that's a good thing to think about yourself. I think it means you are alive, that you feel, that you can tap into the sort of feeling that songs are made of, the dreamy place where inspiration lives. True love is a feeling in one person, not a relationship between two people. It doesn't ever matter if it is unrequited, and you should never throw it away if it is. Loving is living, and the harder and deeper and more passionate you love, the more fucking alive you are.

I like that. But I know you, tomorrow you'll be sad or angry or trying to work it all out again.

Yeah, probably, but isn't it okay to have a revelation from time to time? And besides, it made me feel good about myself, and about others I know who love that way. It made me think, it's just nice that people like us exist. It's healthy for the world, because what the fuck else is there worth living for?


No. Not sluts. Don't be facetious. I know you understand.

I do, but maybe you're being a little High Horse about it. I mean, everyone loves in their own way mister, you can't think that because one person doesn't seem to be vibrating with intensity, that their love is lesser than yours. You're just a little more...volcanic about the whole thing.

Ok, point taken. But like I said, sometimes I need to feel good about myself, and the way I feel about things. Sometimes I like to distance myself from humanity, it helps me restrain myself when I feel like exploding, when I feel that no-one else is alive and I want to tear down the false curtain of reality that everyone hides behind.

Baby, you got to chill! Everyone's just doing their thing. But I get it, and I certainly get you. And yes, I like that you exist, you've got the right attitude. People sometimes do let their focus stray to things which perhaps are trivial in the bigger picture, but everyone's guilty of that, Boy...Now how about you forget about all that shit for a while and tell me what our plan is to blow this fucking one horse town.

I've told you before, don't call her a horse...

Ok fine, sorry. Now get with the plan...

Right, well we've got until January 31st...


I sit in the cafe and think upon the things that need urgent attention. Across from me a group of three teenage girls laugh and busy themselves with giggle and chatter and whisper and other nubile pursuits. But I don't drift. I return my attentions to the notebook in front of me and think about which word to cross out first.

I have to get to Bangkok. I have to get to London. I have to get to Miami.


My friend emails me and tells me how she had sex in a cinema watching Borat. Another friend texted me yesterday and said she was going to have sex with a stranger to help heal her heart. Another friend wants to know what's going on with me, and what will happen when I get to London. I have no answer for any of these friends. But I reply anway.

[That sounds hot, friend number one, I've always wanted to do that. ]

(See, Hemingway says, when you don't know what to write, just write the truest sentence you can)

[Well, friend number two, I'm not sure that's going to help, but I understand why you would do that. I have done that. It didn't work for me though.]

[Friend number three, I have no fucking idea what's going to happen. That's the whole beauty of it. That's why I want it so bad. ]

It is why I want it so bad. I'm so in the Known Universe here. The only problem is, I'm not unintelligent, and I know that everything that exists here will also exist there. And that people are the same wherever you go. And you are the same wherever you go. But it's possible to over intellectualise things, and fuck it, I want to meet new people, I want to believe that somethings ARE different and that if I just fucking expand while I'm still young, dumb and full of cum, I'll stand half a chance of discovering something wonderful.

And besides, it's a fucking adventure right? And who the fuck doesn't want adventure?

Monday, December 11, 2006

Youth and Young Manhood (Hemingway, not Kings of Leon)

Helga was the mother of a girl I went to High School with. I don't remember how I met her, for the girl was never a friend of mine though I did lust after her, Justine - all long legs and strawberry blonde hair with a thousand boys chasing her. I kissed her on a beach the last night of year eleven, but she was the sort of kisser who was too preoccupied with herself to return any sort of spark. Vanity is not a passionate bed companion. I remember watching her pee behind a bush, and seeing her human at that moment for the first time.

But it was her mother I connected with. All of a sudden, I found myself at their house night after night, smoking reefers with Helga and writing each other poetry. I had forgotten about this time. I was a writer then, years and years before I returned to it, here on the internerd. She was a round, fifty something German woman with harsh hair but gentle eyes. I have no idea, almost twenty years on, what I wrote to her on those scrap pieces of paper, but she always vowed to keep them. I hope she has. Sometimes I remember that house, and a few months ago I drove past it and almost knocked on the door. But I knew that she would have moved, moved on, drifting through time, flux and chaos, my two worst enemies and my two constant companions.


I will forever remember this year. This is the year I have learned not to rely on dreams, though to always keep them close. This is the year that I have sat and pouted and wrung my fists at the Universe, and then days later thanked it for its compassion and mercy. These 365 days have been a constant lesson in humility and growth and discovering what I was made of, and then discovering the need to be made of far stronger stuff.

Hemingway said he always felt happy and sad after he finished writing a story, as though he had just made love. I can't imagine ever finishing this story. All I know is, if I leave Melbourne, I may be able to begin writing about it. As though distance will bring clarity, and clarity will bring release and in release, I may yet find an unknown future.


Outside it's bright and sun and here in my studio I can hear piano practise and laughter. The good thing about cliches is they often ring true, and when Life Goes On, it's a nice reminder that it's quite possible to hitch a lift and cruise further down the road. And maybe, down there, you'll find a place to rest your soul and eat some good food, and you won't have to hide, and you won't have to lie to protect the people you love. You can just be. I can just B.

Giddy up.


Oh, and Happy Fucking Birthday Fry. Life was clearer when your wonderous brain was nearby. I miss you terribly. xxxxx

Sunday, December 10, 2006

And the hours go like minutes, and the shadows come to stay.

There is Hell in the sky as I walk the streets toward tonight. Thick choking dust and fire painting the setting sun blood red and lending the whole picture a surreal tint. If this is my reality, then I have brought Hell to life this weekend. The sky is so low that when I hold my arms up I can pluck clouds from the sky, and recreate them, darker, denser, with a simple exhale from my cigarette. People run across the streets holding clothes over their mouths, as though this will save them from ingesting my Hell. I simply breathe it all in. I suck Hell deep into my lungs and the burning needles hot searing ash gives me an impersonal determination. It's a serial killer kind of detachment, as I watch the whole world burn. I have created this tableau, not the fires. I have brought Hell to us, for it is time, time to judge, time to surrender, time to change, time to make everything final. And then I'm hit with a Revelation. And it just so happens, that it's six o clock. Six past.

Night comes, but offers little respite.

I don't mind, I didn't expect any.


Back in my cave all hot molten lava chic, I discover my things have been rifled through. Twice. In the space of two weeks. By two different people. People who say they love me but don't trust me and decide to take it upon themselves to find out what truths lie within my shadow black soul. Of course, they find nothing but pain. Their own. I shake my head and walk back outside to watch the fire flies dance around the rotting remains of the past. My skin crawls and I read the message which burns branding across my arm, TOXIC...

The message fades and I think, it's not toxic, it's just what they all call Love.

It's complicoxic.


I have half a chance of escape. But I have to be mindful of deception. Here in Hell a staircase leading up just as often leads to another drop. But it's a chance, an opportunity, and I'm going to do all I can. Every minute of every day right now, I keep my mind on that escape. Some people might call it running. But if you were in Hell, wouldn't you run?

Wednesday, December 6, 2006

I'm not entirely sure, however, that they're all free.

After getting all angry at the world yesterday, it was nice to drink Gin and Tonics and eat Sushi. So today I figured I'd take a look at the good things in life. Originally I had an idea of an all time Top 5 Best Things Ever, but 5 just wasn't enough, so I'm just going to write some things until I get bored of this weird, keyboard on the floor thing I've got going on at the moment.

First, let's put on some...........Crosby, Stills and Nash.



1/ I don't want to always harp on about it, but really, there is no better feeling than a roadtrip to the country. I love the road house toasted sandwiches, the smoking out the window, mix tapes, the mess of drinks and lollies and newspapers in the front seat, a hot leg to rub beside you, a...shit have to concentrate moment as they "rest" their head on your lap as you drive, the smell of paddocks when the city disappears and the forest starts to spread around you and the road opens up and the towns are little and cute and every shop looks interesting and who cares about a destination because you're already there, in the car, pointing straight ahead toward wherever. Sigh.

2/ FOOD. But okay, if I have to specify something about this bliss of all blisses (blissi?) then how about, when you're starving, and you've ordered and you're sitting down and here comes the waitress, that looks like ours, oh my god it IS ours, hey is that drool that's gross, and it gets placed in front of you and you've never eaten here before and that...first...bite...oh....GOD YES.

3/ I like being about ten pages into a book, and realising I am really going to love this book. When you have to actually put it down for five seconds, breathe, rub the cover, reread the blurb if you must, smell the pages, give a little giggle, before having another sip of you drink and diving straight back in. Goodbye real world.

[this isn't one of those me me things is it? THEY'RE NOT ON THE LIST. Oksorrybye]

4/ Being in the airport, holding your hand luggage, browsing magazines, buying shit airport coffee, trying to find one good looking person to eye flirt with on the same flight, breathing in that airport smell, loving the fact that no matter how many times you've done this, it will always feel as exciting.

5/ I can't get to number 5 and not mention sex. But if I had to pick right now, I'd say my favourite is waking up in the morning next to someone you love and having languid, lazy, hangover sex. Hair of the dog that bit you, you might say.

6/ I love unplanned, organic party days. Sitting in the sun having a beer with a good friend when another calls and joins you. And then another, and another and before you know it a whole group of great people are sitting around a table ordering jugs of beer and laughing and reminiscing and you look around the table and realise how lucky you are, and how much you love your friends...and how all of a sudden, you're actually quite fucking pissed. And it's good.

7/ Listening to a life changing album, for the first time. I remember, back in our magazine days, the day that Universal first sent us a copy of QOTSA's Songs for the Deaf. It was George, and I think Davey, and I, sitting in a tiny back office, drinking beer. We put it on, cranked it, and not one of us spoke for 90 minutes. Every now and again, we'd look at each other, grinning wildly and shaking our head at this fucking SOUND that was destroying us, leaving us breathless and dripping in adrenalin induced awe. I remember a lot of albums like that, but that day will always stick in my head. What a fucking band.

8/ Seeing someone you've missed, after an extended period of time. That embrace, that first giddy smile, picking them up and spinning them around, or patting them on the back, having so much to say you can barely speak fast enough, but at the same time, being content just being beside them.

9/ Starting a blog post about the best things in life, and realising that you could go on forever, and then realising that this means you're in a good mood, and that life is okay and deciding to stop blogging because you need to work out how to get to Bangkok by the end of January because your cousin just gave you a Business Class ticket from Bangkok to London which expires January 31st. And wondering if Kate Moss flies Business Class or if the Stewardesses would want to have dirty airline sex with a skinny Melbourne Man /Boy.

Tell me your favourite things, and let's make with the happy.

Tuesday, December 5, 2006

A Time to Dye.

When I was young I grew up in a dodgy Hotel on Fitzroy St, St Kilda called the Majestic Hotel. My mum was the Manager, because she was rooting the guy who owned the building. I guess a lot of dodgy shit went on, though I was too young to have a proper understanding of everything. All I remember was meeting American Oil Rig divers, peeling potatoes, and watching my mum fight with gigantic Samoans on Heroin. St Kilda was a very different place back then.

Look here's a picture of the Hotel. In sexy Black and White.

The reason I bring it up, and it's kind of long winded so suck it, I mean sorry, is that painted all around St Kilda back then, was this:

The ANARCHY symbol. Friend of fifteen year old, middle class rebels everywhere. Except I was only eleven, and had no fucking idea what the Hell it meant. I used to see it everywhere.

One day my friend Wolfgang, who you can read about here, put his arm around my shoulder and proceeded to give me the lowdown on "Anarchy".

"Anarchy are the biggest gang in Australia, they're the scariest, toughest mish mash of bikies, prostitutes and ex football playes, and they'll kill you if you even so much as look at that sign without preying to the God of Anarchy"

Okaaaaay. I'm not sure. I think I probably KNEW that it was bullshit, but I liked it. Anarchy was a pretty fucking tough name for a gang, and although I was 17 years away from a career in Graphic Design, I still dug on the logo man. Simple, effective, tough. Killer.

We even found the oldest building we could find, a run down factory on Dalgety St, back before the developments fucked St Kilda a new townhouse sized arsehole, and used to run past it as fast as we could, knowing that it was the secret Headquarters of Anarchy.

(You know what? Writing this, I like 11 year old Wolfgang and me...)

ANYWAY. The reason I'm talking about all this nostalgic bullshit is because of these guys:

Our government, and their government. Actual cocksucking results may vary.

Ya see, like Socialism, which is a beautiful CONCEPT, but completely fucked in a practical sense, Anarchy has a certain attractiveness. Especially when the option is to be completely fucked over by a pack of Butt Fuck Wolves masquerading as our Leaders, our Friends. Unfortunately however, we're all too intelligent to ever think anarchy is actually a concept that would be beneficial to mankind. Imean, I can't speak for you, but I believe we need to join together and explore the universe, expanding our horizons, working as one race to further discover greater mysteries than ourselves within an infintismal canvas, our cosmos, and unfortunately I believe we need some sort of centralised government to achieve this goal. Although fuck nose where the Hell we're ever going to find the sort of benevolent visionaries necessary to get anywhere near THAT sort of future...

Which brings me to why I'm starting to believe that we need some sort of Anarchic Revolution which will help topple every government on the planet and start from Scratch.

I mean, y'all think that swapping one Right Wing Government for another, LESS Right Wing Government is a step in the right direction. Yeah. Wow.

And I guess you're right. But to be honest, I think we're well beyond that now.

We're fucked either way. So I'm officially abondoning the "LEFT" (hahaha, you've got to be kidding me right? LEFT? YOU HONESTLY BELIEVE THAT?) and continuing to spit on the "RIGHT" (they ACTUALLY HAVE NO PENISIS, THIS IS A MEDICAL FACT) and instead I will begin to work towards creating a seperate State within a State. Somewhere where they can't bomb, somewhere they can't tax, or control, or spy, or regulate.

You want to know where this Mythical Land is?

It's in my head. And that's where I'm staying. I'm tired of two party system. I'm tired of Faux Socialists thinking that the Labour Party has any sort of Social Agenda other than the self advancement of their own petty Party squabbles. I'm certainly tired of the Liberal Party and it's blind pursuit of THE ECONOMY at the cost of creativity, individuality and any sort of Social Conscience. The whole thing stinks. And anyone who buys into it is a fool.

Fuck off. I'm moving to the country.

What brought this on, you say?

I guess it was learning about this.

Our present Liberal Government last year signed a pact with the Americans, so that the Yanks could bring these:

So that they could practice war shit by bombing this:

and these little guys:

and meanwhile, the Great White Fucking DREAM TEAM of our supposed saviour Left Wing Party these two fuckwits:

Have a guess what they're talking about on the radio...

Go on, guess.

Yep. How many times she's dyed her hair.

Good for you Australia.

Monday, December 4, 2006

Time to Kill.

The broad had me tied to a chair in the middle of a shitty warehouse in a shitty part of a shitty town. It was time to hurt me, she said, but I'd been hurt before. In fact, I'd grown acustomed to it. What she didn't know was, this time, I was ready to inflict some pain of my own. The ropes weren't that tight. But I'd let her have her fun for a while. I'd do some screaming, shed some tears, let her think it was all going to plan. I'd get cut up, maybe lose an ear in some sort of cliched Michael Madsen moment, but on the inside, I was all smiles baby. I was twiddling my thumbs and biding my time. And when the moment came, I'd make it count.

Damn but she smelled good when she leaned in, whispered in my ear and brushed her lips against mine before BANG, the knife slid into my gut and screaming insanity like a banshee she twisted it up and around. Hurt like Hell. Had to stay focused. My mind is my fortress, the one place she can't touch. She pulls the knife out and licking the blade turns around and walks that shimmy that she does so well. I'm losing blood, I'm getting tired, it's getting blurry.

But it's still not time. Will it ever be time?

I don't think it's a good idea to watch Sin City before going to bed. Shit fucks with your head.


Conversation on Saturday Night at the Terminus Hotel while DJing:


You what?


My phone number? Why?


the Mansonest?

yeah. the mansonest...



Forget it. No you can't.


How do you make a decision that will change your life forever? What if you can't weigh it up? If yours is the sort of brain that can see every possibility, or can see none at all, how do you make a choice? Instinct is a load of hogwash, I don't think I've ever had an instinctual feeling in my life, other than once when I decided not to leap out of the tram just as a car zoomed past. So all that's left is to choose, one way or the other, and deal with the consequences, as well as reap the rewards. Because why walk down a path, if you're forever wondering what the other path held? I don't want to play the regret game any more. Not over summer. Too damn hot for anything but water fights, gin and tonics and hopefully, the feel of cool, wet skin on skin.


No one has ever called me an enigma but it wouldn't be far off the mark if they did. For sure, I'm a walking fucking mass of contradictions. And a lot of the time, in real life, I'm not the person you read on here. In fact, a lot of the time, I'm whatever you want me to be. Gets pretty tiring after a while. Think I might spend a lot more time at the beach with some books, feed the brain, nourish the vocabulary, and keep searching for that one plan that's going to get me the fuck out of here. I've been browsing cook books, dreaming of domesticity, wondering when I'll be able to afford a new bed with new linen and get some hanging plants for my decking. I'm getting real good at the huge Sunday Herald Sun crossword. It's been two days and I've got fifteen clues left. And this is the most boring paragraph I think I've ever written. Heh.

It's 26 days until the end of a really fucking crap year.

But don't let my language fool you, I'm a happy guy.
An optimist even.

And I've got faith.