Because I’m not too old to be pop culturally ignorant.

You know what? That new Shakira/Rihanna song is pretty catchy. Nice and simple, I found myself enjoying it much more than I expected. An upbeat Carribean melody, straightforward lyrics with a catchy chorus. Their voices seem to compliment one another surprisingly well. I think the last time I was caught unawares by a duet to this extent would’ve been this catchy jam from Janelle Monaés brilliant 2010 release The Archandroid. There’s no doubt when it comes to the the Shakirihanna single the first idea was to film a video in which the duo could aggressively sexually grind against a wall. Because ‘twerking isn’t cool any more (lies, love that woman. I think that only raises it to an artform). After they figured out the choreography for the music video they probably started on the song. Or purchased one that’d been floating around the market for a while. I’m not bashing it, as I said I’m on board. We’ll see how on board I am over the next 3 months as Virgin Radio shamelessly thrashes it to bits. It’s a shame, I kind of liked Imagine Dragons when I first heard them. I still think it’s a travesty that It’s Time never gained more traction as a single. Then again, it’s always had a special place in my heart after some savvy Community fan put together that near perfect mid season 3 hiatus tribute video. Fuck it, that one’s good enough to get the embedded treatment:

By the way, am I the only one who didn’t really think that much of the Imagine Dragons/Kendrick Lamar mash-up at The Grammys? I mean, Kendrick was mindblowing, but I couldn’t help feeling that Imagine Dragons themselves were a bit superfluous. Aahhh, fuck it. I sound like some curmudgeonly grandpappy afraid of progress. I’m a fan of mash-ups, it just didn’t seem like an equivalent partnership. Then again, why do I care about that kind of thing? I never really cared for Radioactive as a single, so what do I have to spare a shit about? As I said, Kendrick was phenomenal and I’ve since rectified GKMC’s absence from my music library. It’s funny, but I just never really got into the album. I mean, I thought his freestyle last year was fucking amazing (can’t find the link) and I’ve wanted to get the hype, but it’s just not sinking in. Maybe this’ll be a late bloomer for me like Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti’s critical smash Before Today. I think it took a full year after everything had died down for me to really appreciate it. By then he’d been and gone, no live show for me. Stinkhouse.

Speaking of no live show, The National announced 3 days worth of performances in Toronto on January 21st and they’re practically all sold out. Scalpers on Kijiji are already trying to shift the prime tickets – usually $70+BF – for upwards of $240. Harsh. While I’d love to see them again, I can’t justify $70ish when most gigs are between $15-$40. Pity. I’ve noticed scalping here is a much harsher affair. I don’t know if there are any structures in place to prevent the practice, but if there are I haven’t seen evidence of it working. Most of the Neutral Milk Hotel tickets I saw were going for at least double their initial price, though who knows if people were picking them up. Scum. Total opportunist scum these scalpers. Deliberately taking resources they don’t particularly care for to restrict access from interested parties and sell them back at a premium. As a relatively devout capitalist I should applaud the entrepreneurial spirit of the engagement, but I don’t think even my hero Daniel Plainview would be so mean hearted.

Also Happy Birthday mum. Since we’re not Facebook friends I should probably say it here. May today’s cup overrunneth with joy and tomorrow’s morning be free from hangovers.

Please never get me to explain feminism. It’s like getting a calculator to explain love. The best it can do is spell “BOOBIES” upside down.

I clearly was not made to talk to women. Now let’s spend the rest of this entry unravelling what seems like the utmost in sexist (definitely not sexiest) commentary. I think most of it will be jumping through hoops, but that’s the fun of it, right? First off, yes. Let’s start with the disclaimer that (at least I think by now) everyone realises to a large degree (wow, so many weasel words in one sentence. Is this what the whole thing is gonna be? Shoot me now) that gender is a social construct. Beyond certain biological differences, the way our gender identities have been constructed are hugely equatable to the influences in our society over time. Because women have been much maligned and repressed (which sucks, obviously. Geez, was there a bigger understatement I could’ve thrown out there?) constantly throughout history (oh please whatever deity or lack thereof I pay tribute to, let this entry not be yet another), they’ve been repeatedly seen as second class citizens. Their rights have been trampled on time after time and it’s no difficult call to say that their thoughts, feelings and beliefs have been left on the cutting-room floor while male ideas gain significance. Fuck people. Or I guess predominantly dominant males. Fuck you guys.

Now as a male it’d be a bit rich for me here to lash out at male privilege carte blanche, because clearly I benefit from it too. That’s something I need to admit and recognise the significance of. I’ll always remember a conversation with a close female friend. I told her to just stay a bit later while her boyfriend piked off home, no more than 5 minutes walk away. If she needed to she could just walk back when she was finished, rather than waiting for him and his disinterest in our company. My other female friend (I feel weird even saying “my female friend”, as if I’m pointedly alluding to a black friend in conversation as an obviously intentional indicator of diversity amongst my social circle. At least in this case it’s important) instantly mentioned how it wasn’t that easy, she couldn’t “just walk home” through the bay. Even if it wasn’t immediately apparent, the walk contained potential threats if she was alone and strangers approached her, regardless of whether any of those threats actually physically materialised or not. Rather than delving into slutwalk territory here (because I’m in no way qualified to deliver anything worthwhile on that subject. Yes, from the bottom of my heart I wish that women didn’t have to live in any fear of men. No, I don’t think what a women chooses to wear bears any significance on her sexual availability or desire. Yes, I believe that we should be teaching “don’t rape” instead of “don’t get raped”. I’m on your team, but if I’ll let me finish the current anecdote you’ll see why I’m entirely unqualified as any authority on the subject.), I’m just gonna plow on with how this made me feel.

First off, surprised. It was sadly no shock to me that women face aggressive behaviour from males on the regular. What did surprise me was the idea that, in a neighbourhood I grew up in, a neighbourhood I’d never felt anything but safe and secure in, by a beach at which I’d spent many a summer barbecue, there could be any form of threat. The number of times I’d walked back through that area drunk after midnight without the least of a concern would total in the hundreds. So yeah, I felt surprised. Ignorance was definitely a feeling there. How did I not realise this whole time that there could be an issue here? How could my experience vary so wildly from that of my friend based on the fact that my sexual appendages dangle? Ashamed, I guess would be the next feeling. Ashamed of the fact that I’d taken this privilege for granted for so long. My close friends were suffering from something I didn’t realise existed and I’d given nary a spare thought for it. So that was one of the most prominent times I became aware of it. Yet again, others have done more extensive work on it, why read my words when theirs make more sense (and to be honest I couldn’t find the link I really wanted, so I found this one in a 2 minute Google search. Without extensively reading it I hope it actually fits and hasn’t been updated after years of further research (isn’t it a bit rich to be so flippant about something that actually matters in an entry about making an effort? Yes. Yes it is. Because I’m a poor human being). May luck be on my side)?

Getting back to what I was trying to say at the start of this entry (before I tried to justify what I hope can refrain from becoming rampant misogyny), I don’t do well at talking to women. The area where this comes up is conversations based on feelings and emotions. I’m not gonna draw up a dichotomy that says all women are emotional and all men are logical, because I’m not a caveman and the concept of a spectrum exists. Also (because I hadn’t tried to give myself enough padding yet) this is obviously not all-encompassing. This’ll apply for a bunch of males too. Is exception proving the rule still a thing? I feel a lot of the time that when women converse with me about problems they’re having and complaints in their life, they’re wanting someone to listen to their concerns and offer emotional support. They want to hear that their complaints are valid, they want to vent a little and feel secure in knowing that I’m on their side. The idea is that by voicing their struggles and getting it out, they can be assured that I hear and validate their emotional response to a set of problems. Once again, I’m probably wrong and feel free to let me know if this is the case (generalisations have a habit of not fitting everyone). My issue is that I expect others to call me out on my bullshit constantly. If I’m doing something incorrectly, if I took the wrong kind of inference from something that affected me, I need to know so I can adjust my view of the situation. I also consistently incorrectly apply things that work for me to other people. Because of this, I’ve got no issue playing devils advocate and calling my friends out if it sounds like they were in the wrong (but no problem giving them credit if they seemed right). Secondly, the first place my mind will go is to try and find a solution to the problem. Regardless of how much I feel that they’re not looking for a solution, they just want me to give them a pat on the back, a hug or something else to let them know they’re not crazy, I have immense trouble allaying my first instinct to pull a Vanilla Ice and problem solve (wait, have I made that reference already in the last week? Shit, uh… check out this hook while my DJ revolves it).

Is this because I’m way too self-involved? Yes. Not up for debate. Depending on how close we are, I can see their issues as pretty unimportant in the grand scheme of things. As much as I love having close female friends, I don’t know that I deserve them with an automatic response like this. I feel like my prerogative in this situation is to try and rectify the problem in their life and then it’ll be over. I take their issues, feed them through my mind’s computation and, in its self-involved state, it sends back the kind of solution that would work for me. After offering solutions, if they still have further complaints then I feel useless to them and innately decide there is nothing left that I can do to help. If they’ve come to me and my advice hasn’t sated their needs, the conversation is forfeit. Any further words would be a waste of my time and theirs. Even if I then realise that they just want to vent, I feel like this is a conversation best left for a different friend who cares more and do my best to withdraw. I clearly was not made to talk to women.

Is that enough? Can I put down the shovel and stop digging this hole now?

Also, wasn’t Community good tonight?

Am I a caffeind? I could’ve pulled off that misspelt pun if I had mocharisma. These puns are kind of lattéme. I’m not even espressorry.

I’d been wondering why I was so tired over the last few days. When I say tired I mean achy muscles, heavy lidded, slow witted. The kind of stuff you’d associate with someone who hadn’t slept in days. Or had mono. I fulfil neither of those qualifications, so it seemed pretty strange that I was so taken down. I’d even been doubling down on the sleep. I think I had about 11 hours the other day, then 9 or so hours each day since. Every day I’d been exhausted as soon as I got up. Was it a symptom of being overslept? I’m sure that’s a thing. I don’t even think that was it. I’m not sick as far as I know. If it turns out that there’s a xenomorph parasite using my entrails as a crib I’m gonna be very disappointed. Today I figured out what it was, the solution was simple. I’d been suffering caffeine withdrawal.

See, I overdid it a bit during the weekend. Each day glugging the stuff back like it was water (if we’re talking about the shitty McCafe mocha, then it practically was, just with a metric fuckton more sugar) until it was the only thing keeping me moving (shambling would’ve probably been more apt). The last couple of days I stripped away the mochas and tried to go on my own steam (someone else want to stretch the mere inch it’d take to turn mocha/steam into a pun?) and the result was the aforementioned zombification. How did I figure it out? Well today before work I stopped off at the local fine food store to get a snack for my break and they offered me a free espresso shot. Holy crap, that worked. I felt back to some sense of normalcy, even perkiness. I felt capable of dealing with children which, over the past few days, has been about as pleasant as a root canal. Not because the kids were particularly unruly, but because I’ve been a grumpy moodmonster. My mind has been roaming further than its leash usually allows (seriously, did you read yesterday’s entry?). I’ve been collapsing into bed each night (after several hours aimlessly wandering the internet landscape of course. This is me we’re talking about here) entirely shattered and sleeping the whole night through.

So is that it? Am I now addicted to caffeine? I haven’t been drinking for that long in the grand scheme of things. I think I started around August 2012 (was that before or after Kony? Not sure, but the aftershocks will probably impact the world on a larger scale through the years.) and tentatively increased my intake as time went by. I can’t lie to you guys, when I begun to drink it, it was a crazy hit. I’d see lines tracing my vision, I felt hyper sensitive and aware, I’d think at a rate comparable to a computer. It was definitely a “high” of sorts and I started to “treat” myself with coffees ( always mochas. Only mochas. It’s like fun, warm, chocolate milk) whenever I’d done something I felt warranted it. Those reasons became increasingly more mundane. This sentence was almost “I don’t think it’s a problem” before I realised the mere semantic difference between that and “I’m not addicted, I can stop any time”. I think coffee is a part of my life now. Like alcohol and any kind of addictive substance, the psychological addictiveness is probably larger than the chemical dependence. I’ve gone weeks without coffee and I can do it, it’s a luxury I just prefer not to drop.

Wait, scratch that. Wasn’t I just talking about my withdrawal symptoms? I’m sure I could work my way out of a caffeine binge (well I probably have about 3 mochas a week at this stage) without extreme difficulty, hard as that might be. I still do have that withdrawal. I’m so far from an expert, but here’s how I understood a lot of these addictive substances affect your brain. So you start using this drug, say alcohol, caffeine or something more illicit. It lights up those pleasure centres (note: no knowledge of brain chemistry is going into this) and you perk up. You feel the high beyond your normal self. With increased use, the effects decrease. As these effects decrease, they can create a deficit. This means it’ll take more of that substance to get back to the same high, or take longer to recover that deficit the longer you stay using it. After a while that deficit gets to the point where your intake of this substance will only get you back to the point of normalcy, where you were before you even started using the substance.

Where does this put me? Well my intake isn’t gratuitous (except when I start a chain, with coffee dependence one day leading to a lack of sleep, which requires coffee to wake myself out of ad infinitum) as of yet. If I can monitor myself and keep it to a few times a week I should be fine. If I start to crave that daily hit I might have a problem. Or with a borderline addictive personality, I might even convince myself that once a day isn’t so bad as long as I’m not having 2 per day. We’ll review it again once we get there. Just something I’ve gotta keep on my watchlist.

Now how funny would it be if the problem actually was mono?

Didn’t expect to pull that one out of my sleeves.

This started out as an intended cutesy greeting message online. I don’t know what the fuck followed. Oh, and before you think I’m entirely crazy, she mentioned that her slanket was one of the six things she couldn’t do without.

I once owned two slankets. True story. They came as a pair and I felt like there must be some reason one person could need two, so I made one. I separated them as “work” and “home” slankets, which worked fantastically in the air conditioned editing studio which would often leave me with cold arms and body, but a warm back. It was the perfect solution. This also meant that when I got home I had a perfectly fresh slanket to change into. Oh how wondrous life was.

Thing is, you know when things are running like a dream, there has to be some kind of nightmare in store for you. I ended up getting a job back home, away from the small town where I purchased the slankets. Good news, but accidentally leaving one of them back at work made me feel like I’d left part of myself there. Couldn’t I have just forgotten an eyebrow or toenail? Not something essential to my being like that beloved slanket.

Still, I had one slanket and I was back home in the big city where I wanted to be. Things were still lookin’ up for our hero (a hero that leaves a good slanket behind? More like some kind of monster). Thing was, my girlfriend at the time hated the remaining slanket, she always had. Maybe she just knew the place it held in my heart and felt threatened.

I always told her that she was being silly, that there was no way a functional, fashionable piece of fabric such as that could ever hold the same sway over my love as a beloved lovely lady of flesh and blood with feelings, emotions and a heartbeat.

I was lying.

She knew it too. Jealousy started rearing its ugly head. I offered to share its unbelievable sleevable softness with her when she read, when we marathoned shows together. She refused, so I’d wear it. I realised that the slanket was coming between us, not only physically, but metaphorically too.

She started to treat the slanket with open disdain. She refused to let me bring it our on romantic picnic outings. I begrudgingly acquiesced, knowing how amazing sandwiches would taste while being sandwiched between two blankets. If she came in while I was on my computer, garbed in its practical warmth of my otherwise exposed body parts, I knew a fight would be brewing. Things were getting tense and I truly didn’t know which side I’d end up on.

One day the slanket just disappeared. Straight up, out of the blue. Immediately I knew who to talk to. I sent her a text asking what’d happened to it, only to be faced with agitated denial. Who else would’ve done something to my beloved slanket? Nobody else had reason, motive. I didn’t text back. Days passed and I refused to get back to her. I felt lonely and cold and I didn’t truly know if it was her warmth or that of the blanket that was missing. Still, stubborn and obstinate I waited for her to get back to me.

It was a harsh, soul searching time. She shouldn’t have done what she’d obviously done, but was I really gonna side with an inanimate blanket over the woman I loved? Of course not, I’m not a monster (despite what the earlier aside would tell you) and I knew that everything we had was far more important than a fight over a piece of cloth. I started to text her back apologizing for my behaviour that put the “jerk” into knee-jerk. She was strangely dismissive and elusive. The further I put out that olive branch, the more her hand would retract. What was happening? Had I done irreparable damage through my short-sighted accusations? Was I really gonna lose her like that? Not if I could do anything about it.

I hopped in the car and texted her that I was on my way over. I received a barrage of replies:

“I’m really sick, stay away.”
“I’m just thinking of you, please don’t come over.”

On her porch I sent her a quick message saying “forget all that. I’m sorry, I miss you too much to leave you alone in that state.” I let myself in and knocked on the door to her room.

“Stay out, please don’t see me like this.”

I opened the door and tentatively stepped in. Things were strewn everywhere. Clothes lined the floors, messy dishes and cutlery spilling everywhere. She looked back at me, sheets pulled up to her chin, cheeks flushed, hair mussed. There was a strange manic glint in her eyes. I was taken aback, until I noticed the bulge in the bed next to her. My eyes narrowed and suddenly it all seemed to make sense. Her emotional distance and dismissive attitude of late. Tears welled in my eyes.

“Who is it?”
“It’s not what it looks like. Just give me a minute to get things straightened out.”
“What needs straightening out? At least respect me enough to let me see the guy who’s taken you from me.”
“It’s not… it’s not like that.”
“What about you, dude? You really gonna hide your face? What would you do if the situation was reversed?”
“No, please. It’s just…”

I saw a sleeve come out from underneath the sheets, then another one. The sleeves pulled the sheets all the way down until I could see the full form of my rival.

It was my slanket. In her bed. What the fuck was going on?

My head spinning, I took an involuntary step back. Then another.

“Wait, we can talk about it. Don’t leave.”

But I was already heading out the front door.

I’d like to say that we worked it out, that things got better and we formed something greater between the three of us, but there are just some betrayals that are too hard to let go.

So here I am, half a world away. Hopefully it’s far enough.

I wouldn’t be lying if I said I’d done weight training wearing my Magic the Gathering deck bag. It’s like a weighted vest.

Another day, some semblance of stuff and/or things happened. Firstly I slept for 11 hours. I guess the rigours of ‘Straya Day took their toll and my sleep deprived excess wrought havoc on my circadian rhythms. Thus 11 hours in bed to recuperate. As someone who’s never been particularly great at slumber, something about being in this hemisphere has catapulted my ability to rest to Snorlax levels of somnolence. Most days I don’t even need to set an alarm, assured that my lack of every day work means waking up at all isn’t actually necessary. My body regulates itself pretty well, so even if I do have work, I’l likely rise before I need to leave at 3.30pm. The more I put it to paper, I’m increasingly aware of my own slovenly nature. When did I descend from a human to a sloth-like state? What is my lack of employment doing to me?

On that note, I’ve got something new that’s popped up. It’s no big deal, but I got offered a position as an Assistant Lunch Club Coach today at Real Food for Real Kids. It sounds like a pretty choice operation, going into schools and feeding kids who’re enrolled in the program. It’s all about healthy, delicious meals, good habit forming and nutritional education. I won’t be cooking, but serving and apportioning quantities out. Part of the deal is a free lunch for myself every shift I work (1-1.5 hours) and a high chance of leftovers. It should help me earn enough that I can quit cutting into my savings, and possibly either start drinking or joining a gym. Split priorities there. They say that quick advancement is pretty likely and I could find myself cutting that “assistant” part off my title quite quickly. Score.

It looks like I might be able to find a local Magic the Gathering group to play with, finally. Having brought my cards over with me, taking up my precious (MY PRECIOUS) weight allowance and cupboard space (less precious, it’s not like I really own anything here yet), it’d be great to actually make some use of them. Some dude on Reddit replied to my query about great local stores with an offer to come and play with his friends. Seems like a nice dude and it’s something I’ve sorely missed. The thing about MtG for me is that while I love the game, the social aspect is the thing that keeps bringing me back. It’s awesome to play with others, to converse with others about the game and find like-minded chums to build a geeky social circle with. I had an awesome play group at home who ended up being some of my close friends. The group eventually moved beyond just being centred around the game and we started to hang out based on other shared habits. I’m not gonna negate the fact that I’m a massive nerd and love cultivating other nerdy people in my life. Aside from the board game group I see regularly, this seems like an excellent chance to accumulate even more geeks in my circle of friends. If I’ve learned anything over the years, the term geek has no bearings on the social aptitude of the individual, rather it shows them as a person who’s passionate about something. Why wouldn’t you want to bring passionate people around you?

Also hung out with my first Kiwi friend here. A barista at my local coffee shop invited me out for an evening of Settlers of Catan with him and his friends. As per the norm, I suffered from shit rolls and a lack of experience with the game, but it was fun to have another group to play around with. I didn’t come here to consort with other New Zealanders constantly, but regardless of  my lack of patriotism (our ever embarrassing Prime Minister today put forward a motion in parliament to congratulate Lorde on her Grammy wins. Because that’s probably the biggest thing to happen to our country since the Christchurch Earthquake. Also means our most successful international music product is no longer a folk comedy duo), it’s nice to chat with someone who shares my heritage (and accent). He works late and goes out to gigs all the time, so it should encourage me to get away from this screen a bit more regularly. This can only be a positive thing.

So yeah, stuff and/or things. All on a day in which I slept for 11 hours. Just imagine what I could accomplish if I slept for half the time (from past experience, not half as much). Can I chalk today up as a win?

To be honest, that Tiger Malt Beverage was more hazardous than a Goon could ever be.

If I could have anything right now it’d be a longer tongue. I’m trying my hardest to clear this bowl of banana and peanut butter, but my tongue is less anteater, more turtle. I’m no dog, because otherwise this’d be sorted tidily. One of the many times I despair at my lack of caninity. I wonder if there’s ever been a biblical animated dog called Canine Abel. Google says no. Finally I’ve found my gap in the market. I never thought religious cartoon programming would be my calling, but the world certainly needs a prophet called Meowses who parts a sea of milk to escape the evil Sparroah. It practically writes itself. Unlike whatever is going on right here. I’ve been lucky to avoid anything resembling this mythical writers block thing, but it’s likely because I have the luxury of being able to use writer’s block as a topic to circumvent itself. Neat. Both in the 80s “neato” sense, and with a tidy air.

I did manage to leave the house last night and get out to that party. I got back just after 7 this morning. Australia day was as grand as you’d imagine, a bloody mess of the highest order. The table was full of delectable Aussie treats; slices of toast with vegemite, a tray of “snarlers” with white bread and fried onions (also careful instructions to place the sausage diagonally on the bread, violation of which would be extreme taboo) and Tim Tams. Before I left I spent literally 20 minutes sitting immobile in my room, looking at the alcohol on my dresser and deciding whether or not to drink. Thought patterns revolved around circles such as these:

If I do, I’ll be betraying my own decree not to drink until I have full time work. On the other hand the choice to cut it out was an arbitrary decision made to cut down on spending precious cash and calories on it. This alcohol already exists in my life, I’m not purchasing anything I haven’t bought already. Still, I’ll be cheapening a decision I made. Think of Future Leon and how he’d feel if you gave up on him. Yeah, but Future Leon might be elated to have had such a good time. Still, part of him would be racked with guilt at having failed his own proclamation. But tired as you are, you’ll be a poor party guest. Alcohol would fix that. So am I saying that without alcohol I’m incapable of reasonable interaction? No, not at all, it might just be helpful this time. But I said I wouldn’t. Look, you’re accountable to nobody but yourself on this, right? Right, so if I fail it, I’ve failed myself. I can’t just keep making small caveats to the rule, otherwise the rule has no point. Yes, that’s true, but if you’re doing this so you can enjoy yourself more, then you’re doing yourself a service. What happens if you meet people and really hit it off with them? You could make heaps of friends who you might, sans booze, feel disinclined to talk to. Right, because I’m so tired…

So I decided not to drink. My integrity was worth more than that. I went to the supermarket and picked up absurd non-alcoholic drinks. Some malt beverage and a bottle of creaming soda. If I wasn’t gonna get “turnt” I could at least drink bizarre things. And creaming soda. So just to clarify, the bizarre things were that one bottle of Tiger Malt Beverage. After drinking it, it was strange enough to be pluralised. My non-drinking thing went ok, I met people and had middling polite conversations, but my sleep deprivation was depriving me of interactive capabilities. So as soon as the gaffer-taped, jerry-rigged Goon of Fortune (it was almost precisely like this, but with more background howls of “STREEEEWTH” and “STRAYA CUNT”) landed on me, I felt obliged to suck on that nozzle like the nipple that raised me. This happened a few times and I quickly ascended to the necessary state of holiday spirit.

So where am I with this whole not drinking thing? I’m not sure. I had an exceptionally great time and regret nothing about my decision. I’m not sure how it plays out from here. Quitting my decision not to drink right now just because of one indiscretion would be about as stupid as wasting too much time beating myself up over it. I’ve got a feeling that I might have another part time job coming up soon that’d provide me with beer money. Then again, that in itself gives me the choice of what I’d rather have in my life between alcohol or a gym membership. One is the right choice for my body, the other might be the right choice for my mental state. Or not. Drinking shouldn’t be a moral issue either way, but nobody needs to worry about it but me.

Also it’s Waitangi Day on Thursday. I think celebrating the union of our national cultures is worth sinking a whiskey or two.

Happy birthday ‘Straya. Bless you and your many unnecessary double vowels.

I feel mostly dead. More accurately I feel like I’ve been embalmed, blood replaced by a steady stream of caffeine. Too much coffee yesterday coupled with a 2am phone call, 9am work and shitty McDonalds coffee (accompanied by a nice artisan one this afternoon) means that I’m in a state too malformed to be considered human. I’m certainly not in any kind of manner to be social, much as today has tested me. Do I feel better than yesterday at least? My angsty appeal as to why I’m completely undateable? Well I wouldn’t date me, but I guess I’ll never have to. Praised be to that. I pity womankind who has to deal with the affliction I place upon them. Maybe I’ll just remove myself from the market for a while, at least until regular blood returns to my veins.

Monstrosity as I am, I’m kind of tempted to get out of the house. I’ve already turned down one invitation for the evening, but the allure of a local Australia Day party at one of my past potential flats is sorely tempting. Who wouldn’t want to be inundated with a steady stream of Kylie Minogue, goon of fortune, ceaselessly life-threatening wildlife and con-victuals? If even for the excuse to shout “STRAYA CUNT” for a whole evening, remaining charmingly beyond reproach (note: I won’t be half as charming as I think I will be). Also since I’ve left home, I’m starting to enjoy that shared ANZAC spirit. Most of the Aussies I’ve met have been quintessential “Good Cunts” in the classical sense. That down under commonality calls to me in a way I didn’t think it would. It’s not like I’m pining to join an Australasian street gang, performing the Haka while screaming “FOOTY” everywhere we go, offending all in attendance with our mar-mighty breath. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little tempted.

Even as I type I can feel the scales tipping towards attendance. While my alternate plans involve wearing a bathrobe all evening (a good night by any metric), the guys at the flat throwing the party are pretty choice blokes who accumulate a social circle of a similar ilk. Rude and unapologetic, perverse and quick-witted, pop-culturally attuned, just great people to be around in general. The kind of fellows who would generate enough energy to rouse me from my undead state. The kind of people who’d hold a massive argument over the artistic validity of a revered rock artist, then immediately shit on them in favour of a novelty outfit like Milli Vanilli. My kind of people.

If it’s a choice between that sort and my own company, I’d clearly go for the former (the latter not being my favourite person right now). The more I type the more I come to terms with my innate sociability and need for a certain cast of characters. I’m sure most folks would have that, a general archetype of entity that brings them out of a funk, no matter how oppressive it seems. I’ve been wandering around in a dream all day long, but I feel like I need a good jostling laugh to work myself out of it. A house of drunken cavorting might be that special elixir that sets me back on track. Well done, blank page. You’ve convinced me to leave this hovel for a brighter land of opportunity. Hopefully this isn’t the last you hear from me (cue getting mugged by some rowdy Australasian street gang). Farewell guys, I am just going outside and may be some time.