When I got into the shower tonight, I looked down and thought, 'hmm. Where did that gigantuan blackcurrent bruise on my hip come from?' And then I remembered midnight on Thursday, when I beelined the fuck for the kitchen counter with Patricia the cat in one hand and a litre of Baskin & Robbin in the other.

And thus completes my premature embrace of spinsterhood. I'm a tard.

I don't usually watch the weather forecast. Pert, blonde, baton-wielding cyborgs intimidate me, for a start; and anyway, there's never anything very much interesting about it. If it rains, I don't own an umbrella so I'm going to get wet regardless. If it's sunny, well... I wouldn't live in Queensland if I couldn't hack a li'l broiled pigment. Severe storm warnings are the kind of thing I usually get from every single person I encounter throughout the course of the day, and I rarely put enough effort into styling my hair to be concerned with trivialities like Gale Force GHD Reversal. But ' day-long blood-red dust chaos?' Now THAT would have been worth tuning in for.

This shit was dirt-thick, and collected on every nook, cranny & car bonnet throughout the city. It was so dense that I could taste mud on my lips simply walking to my lecture from the car park. With Portal as a soundtrack, the whole thing was basically a post-apocalyptic nightmare come true.

Crap weather. Who says nothing ever happens in Brisbane?

Awkwardly enough, poppets, there's been some trouble down the old Bayou. This Journal is now Friends Only - I'm actually not hugely pedantic about who reads it, though, so even if I don't know you, just comment to be added and she'll be sweet. Ta! xoxo

I'm not, by nature, a melancholy person. I tend to say No Way to Ennui. Feelin' Low can GTFO. Give me cheerful pep or no pep at all, wimps and posers leave the hall. I mean, aside from the fact that there's always awesomeness aplenty to dig - swell jams, social encounters, the way maple syrup tastes good on things that nature's favourite caramel just SHOULDN'T even touch, like banana and bacon - I just don't have the attention span to brood. Every time I'm lying back in my room with garbage bags over my windows and a lovely fishnet blouse on, ready to roll and wail my despondent noggin over some black satin pillows, maybe get up enough static to have my hair fried Robert Smith-esque for good, the phone will ring and it'll be some jerk telling me I've won the lottery, or that Our Lord and Saviour Elvis Fwockin' Christ is handing out free Roll-Ups down the street and promises not to tell my mum and dad, and I'll just get DISTRACTED into feeling good again.

Less often, though, amazing super-fwockin'-pleasant shit can stir up a bit of ambivalence in that treacherous stink-pit heart of mine, and I'll get all, 'aw, shucks.' Take tonight for example. Bob and I went for a cog to Samford to visit Lollie at her parents' house. There was the usual chit-chat and giggle, bit of perusing 5-year-old tattoo magazines, and a lot of memorable dialogue. Well-timed smoke breaks, a terrible coffee from a near-deserted Macca's, a humourous incident involving the Lunachicks' apparent uncanny similarity to Ugly Kid Joe. You know, stuff. We sprung Lollie's dad having quiet time in the garage with his well-worn Eagles best of. In the Media Room, we got to meet this cool guy called Hot Rod  who wanted desperately to be a stuntman and beat up his ailing stepdad. It was all pretty awesome, but Lollie had asked me to look over her mum's teaching assignment for her, and it was here that shit got temporarily delicate. I'm looking at school-based legislation. Child Protection Acts, protocol, policies and procedures. Health and Safety. Head Lice prevention in schools, you know. Where to find details on all of the above, who to discuss said details with, what Lollie's Mum should/would do in case of a meteor crash flooding the St Michael's playground with alien sediment and paedo candy. And I suddenly felt very sad.

Lollie's sitting there snuggled in her leopard-print ugg boots, squeaking delightedly at South Park. Bob's hanging out on the couch up back, letting loose the occasional manly chortle himself. We've done this so many times before over the years, but in the impending couple, who's going to be able to tell if we still can? What's going to happen when, inevitably, one or both of them are all hot up for partying at 11 p.m. on a Wednesday and I'm streteched out on a stinking single bed in some outback shanty town with crap phone reception, having been asleep for two hours already and dreaming of marking clumsy student cursive betwixt red and blue lines? When there's eventually partners to consider, even dependents (UGH, children! Gross).  It's not so much that I fear they'll go on without me. I'm sure they will, and I genuinely hope they do. It's more that I don't think I'll ever have friends like them again. I don't even want to. That's why I write so much about people in this shitty journal - I'm terrified I'll forget. Become an adult. Look back on our shared history with dull, methodical recall and feel nothing about any of it. I don't want to do any of that. But I also don't want to be left behind. Don't want to be the only one jiving about cogging and bein' all 'gimme some reggae (which I LOVE)' when everyone else has been too busy living day to domestically blissful day to give a shit for years. When the kids have soccer and the car needs a service and someone's 70-year-old uncle needs a helping hand, or you've gotta work 89 days in a row until your fledgling vegan cupcake business is on it's feet, or whatever. It's a fwockin' tightrope, man. And it sucks.

In the end, I know I'm over-reacting. I know it doesn't all have to come to a crashing halt anytime soon, and for that, I'm thankful as motherfuck. But for the first time, I'm considering that one day it might. It's unpleasant.

I want Roll-Ups.

Driving out in the diarrhoetic back-ends of Samford tonight, a strange and ethereal mist crept  up over my bonnet. Light at first, the fog thickened, seeming to swirl at waist-height from the forest on either side of the road. Everything darkened around me as I sank further into the Valley. I flicked my headlights onto high beam, fired up the windscreen de-mister and wished I'd brought some sunny pep for the stereo instead of black metal spooksville. My eyes left the road for a moment to alter the volume knob, and when they returned I squeezed them shut again in disbelief. A large black shadow darted from the foliage and settled, calm and firm, in my very path. The fog wrapped around the both of us, thick and white like mayonnaise on a chubby kid's hot chip.  Could see shit-all except my brief, perfunctory life flashing before my eyes. If I don't brake, I'll crash into this faceless beast of the night; if I do brake, it's coming for me. To abduct me, to probe me, to suck my blood and scatter my marrow and serrate my spleen with an other-worldly spork. Jemma's seen a werewolf and lived to tell the tale, but I won't be that lucky. I'll vanish, without a trace, having never fallen in love or read Catcher in the Rye or hired a stripper and a jumping castle for Tanya's hen's party. My family will have no closure, my friends no explanation. They will have to toss talcum powder to the breeze in place of my ashes, and when my mother falls to her knees in the church screaming 'Why? She was so young! Not to mention brilliant and a snappy dresser. Why?!' the congregation will splinter their condolences every which way and rush out in enbarassed, skeptical silence. All because I was about to be eaten by a gigantic, uncanny, cotton-wool-concealed triceretops.

"Maybe I can go around it!" I think too late. I go to swerve, and the creature lets out an almighty bellow. I'm sure the mothership heard it in the canopy. Freaked out, I brake, slamming into the fog like a crim's Falcon through a display window, missing the creature by a hair's breadth and causing it to scurry indelicately back into the bush.

Dumb cow. Fuck Samford.

I went for a run today. The first time I've hauled lard in six weeks. There's no real excuse for that, except for being busy with Prac and work and convincing myself that I ought to squirrel away the winter in TV-beaten hibernation. Nothing big, but I dig the change of scenery.

I pootled up Hyde Road, along the river, and cut into Yeerongpilly reserve, which recent rains had muddied into swampmarsh. A couple of pudgy teenage second-generation-somethings were doing sit-ups there. Greeks maybe, Lebanese. They eyed me off but left me alone. What else did I expect. I'd read in some two-bit community newsletter recently that the sports centre had had its barren stucco walls tarted up with spray graf, so I lumbered past to check that out. Citizens Vigilanti had written that it was ugly, blasphemous and disrespectful, so I thought I might like it. Thought it might lend credibility to the idea that Brisbane might one day become an actual city, with edge and dissent and resistance instead of a thousand kilometres of dry-clean-only suburban drivel, but when I got there it was just chunks of letter bubble, hip hop lyrics and tagging.  Again, nothing I didn't really expect.

The trek along the bikeway was punctuated with intermittent bursts of wattle and berry. Along the fenceline to the industrial estate, some misguided soul had planted geraniums, and wild passionfruit vines drooped thick with green seed like cricket balls. A bit of old-timey hardcore on the iRiver, a bit of nature's fallen foliage underfoot, and I let all the stress and fear of being broke and stagnant and an academic failure seep away like greywater. Feels good man.

See, I finally managed to corner my maths lecturer today. He was nice enough, in a creepy, Rain-Man-monologues, rough-around-the-edges-but-balding-in-the-middle kind of way. But he let me know in no uncertain terms that he believed I hadn't taken his course seriously enough to pass, which I thought was a bit heavy for someone in orthopedic knee-straps. I pointed out my perfect attendence record and relayed my eternal struggle with mathematical, scientific, logical right-brain thought, but decided to leave out the part where I struggle with any challenge that doesn't involve eating thousands of pancakes or 'Which Hair Metal Ballad Are You?' on Facebook. I think he must have taken pity on me right then, because he said, 'Look, I don't usually do this, but..' and offered me enrollment into a remedial mathematics course this coming semester. I'll be doing five subjects instead of four, plus wheedling in my 50 hours of wider experience plus working at IGA. It sounds hard, but it's my only real option. And I don't know if I'm adult enough to handle it, but I guess the future Miss Smith will have to find out.

There's a cold snap over Brisbane. Most of this side of the country, I guess. People are whinging left right and centre about frostbite and beanie hair, but I love it. It's good to feel the bones under your skin when a shiver races through you - especially in my case, as they've taken a backseat to the many oppressive kilograms for so long that I've almost forgotten about them. Plus, mulled wine for breakfast is rad.

Lollie's birthday is coming up in a few days, and for the first time ever, I really have no money to buy her anything. I usually put a fair bit of sweaty bloody-bodied love into Lollie's gifts, because I know her well enough to indulge our in-jokes and gauge her tastes. Actually, maybe 'usually' is an exaggeration, seeing as last year she got a bottle of Jager with a Motley Crue patch duct-taped over it so tightly it took her a month to pry open. Yeah, definitely didn't think that one through. But when people say things like, 'it's the thought that counts,' I always have to bite back the compulsion to ask them 'for how much?' That has to sound cynical, but I don't really mean it that way. It's just that not everyone would get 'Hey man, I've downloaded every single Salt 'n' Pepa song on the whole entire Internet for you, and made you this sweet cricket ball out of half-used bars of soap. Happy birthday!' Fortunately, I'm fairly certain Lollie will. She's pretty great.

Speaking of downloading, and compiling, and agonising (over), my first contribution to the Stick 'Em Up Club's mailing list is rooly givin' me the squits. The theme, should I choose to accept it which I don't, is '12 Songs You Need To Know About Me.' What? I can't do that, man. '12 Songs About Mexicans' is doable, or '12 Songs You'd Compare To Cold, Cold Cervical Intrusion,' maybe. But '12 Songs You Need To Know About Me?' Help. Total inability to select a mere 12 aside, it's horrifying to note that many, maybe all, of my most influential tracks for the last decade are utterly pedestrian tripe. I love them, unconditionally of course, but that doesn't mean I want anyone to KNOW about it. Regardless, because peeping journal-junkies on the Internet are the most trustworthy dudes ever, these are the hot contenders for the list to date, in chronological order of when I dug them. Subject to change - every single minute for the next ten days.

Bad Religion - Generator (1999)
Sparta - Collapse (2003)
Alkaline Trio - Radio (2003)
Against Me! - Cliche Guevara (2004)
Blondie - Hanging on a Telephone (2005)
Bikini Kill - Rebel Girl (2006) anthem with my girlfriends, to this day we all perk up when we hear it
Poison Idea - Crippled Angel (2006)
Pisschrist - Nothing Has Changed (2007)
Amebix - Largactyl (2007)
Disfear - Deadweight (2008)
Skid Row - I Remember You (2008)
Old Crow Medicine Show - Wagon Wheel (2009)

Take that, John Cusack. I'm a more indecisive nerd than you'll ever be.

Weekend was good. Friday night was spent taking in a shitty punk gig on my own at the Clarence, as the usual crew were busy living life to the fullest (sleeping, visiting their parents). It was disjointed and odd, not because I was on my own but because someone must've flipped the Bat Signal and lured everyone I've ever had any kind of awkward sexual encounter with to the venue on that one particular night. Code Name: Batman Socks was there, singing in a fresh new band that actually sounded pretty great, and were named after a toilet. Code Name: Tiny Soldier was there, also playing in a token black metal band starring one of my friends (I'd gone to see them on his suggestion - fairly sure he's unaware of the interlude, but it was interesting to note that Tiny Soldier's musical style was as short and fast as his... other endeavours). Code Name: Tom Hersey wasn't there (of course not, thank god, and that's not even a code name, because I've never managed to invent one that I didn't feel compelled to scream), but his best mate was, chucking me the evils all night from over the top of his troll beard and 'stache. Hardcore shit. The icing on this whole chunk of chuckle-cake was that THE DOG FENCE DUDE WAS THERE AS WELL. Those of you who aren't on my friends list won't remember that story, because I was quite terrified at the time and hid it under a link, but remind me to regale you with it over a hearty lager sometime when I feel safe and quite certain that I won't be going face-to-face with an impenetrable mega-fence made out of a rusty gate and three bricks anytime soon. In addition to the above, I managed to find $20 that Declan dropped and returned it, prompting him to show his gratitude by announcing to all and sundry that I was 'a legend,' as we'd once gotten so maggot on cheap Toowoomba liquor that we'd dry-humped on the floor of a Keno bar. Thanks, man. Now, you all have my solemn word that I'm the OPPOSITE of promiscuous, to the point of it being embarassing; but after four hours of this rubbish I'd more than decided to never have sex again. Promise.

Saturday, Bob came over to pick up his bass amp and chill. Somewhere along the line we stumbled across the idea of Crepe Suzette, perhaps as a vehicle for that delicious Grand Marnier I still haven't had an occasion to drink. Turns out, if you use self-raising flour instead of plain and work really, really hard at it, you can get pancakes and marmalade to seem like a good idea. Gogo, Crepe Suzette.

Saturday night we were out for Joel and Snowy's 21st. Lollie was at a loose end, so she came over to hang out on the thunderbox, taking in beer and some quality celebrity gossip circa January 2003 from one of the many waterstained magazines our bathroom library has to offer. This only sounds weird if you ignore the fact that I was in there with her, tarting up my mug with heart-felt precision and  harlot-red lippie. Yea-ahhh.

After a number of brews and a strange incident with a funnel, we trundled off to O'Malleys to meet Jemma, Lizzie, Joel and about seven thousand other people. I didn't know a lot of them, but Dowling made it in for a bit, so I was happy. Jemma and Lollie got along like a house on fire! Absolutely no reason why they shouldn't, of course, as they're both fantastic and have met many times before, but it was still odd, seeing such different characters in my life chatting away like they were made for it. Jemdog and Lizbot bailed earlyish, and then the rest of the horde filtered off, leaving just Lollie, Joel, myself, and yet another clever, interesting and lovely-looking 21 year-old named Swinson. My, how the world is so filled with these treacherous Eve's Apples. We took to the dancefloor at Thriller with fervour and a Nikko pen Lollie had found lying on a table. When I rolled into work five hours later, unshowered, in my smeary date-rape makeup and coccoon of digestive misery, I hoisted off my jumper and was quite unable to explain to my supervisor what 'TOM GABEL YEAH! WRAITHRIEL MOTHERFUCKER NOT GONNA DIE ALONE <3 YER SWISH CUNT' might possibly mean. Nine hours into the shift, I still wasn't sure.

Cool.

The good thing about failing maths - and not having told your Prac teacher that you've failed maths - is that they are totally free to ask you to teach maths. And the good thing about teaching maths is having 24 tiny attentive accountants all willing to dissect your finances for you, free of charge.

"If I have $100 in my bank account from my shitty weekend job at IGA, and I spend $40 on a bottle of Grand Marnier for no discernible reason, how much do I have left over for food, petrol, bills, and general entertainment expenses until next Thursday?"

Now 24 six-year-olds think I'm an idiot.

Moving on. Had a snoozeworthy weekend. IGA, junk food, made an egocentric quiz on Facebook, the usual dreck. There was a sparkly little sliver of silver lining to be found, but I had to drive all the way to Toowoomba and back for it - I got to hang out with Jemma, which was ace, and appall her dad with falsified historical inaccuracies, and watch her not-quite-step-relative agonise over Top Five movie comparisons, and horrify her not-quite-step-friend-in-law with my crass rejection of Rod Stewart. I wore a hat. I kept my cool.

Went out for Tonci's birthday on the Friday, your basic tipsy triad of watering holes - started at the Belgium Beer Garden for pricy bock, shuffling onto O'Malleys for our 1.5 sheets to the wind, before ending up at the Pig and Whistle just in time to see the Socceroos fans rally their green and gold battallion for kickoff. One of Callum's friends was there, the bloke who called me a stupid tart the other weekend, and while I'm usual a relatively placid pisshead I couldn't curb the volume on my furious femme-rage this time. I ignored him, glared at him, mocked his silk cravat and creaseless suit jacket (yeah, I'm serious. C'mon! It's a fuckin' PUB, not Masterpiece Theatre or, I dunno, a filmclip for the fuckin' Kooks or whatever). And when he got up to leave, I yelled, 'FUCK OFF, STEPHEN FRY!' Then I felt bad because I like Stephen Fry, but I didn't like this wanker with the camp funny-scarf and I figured Stevie Wonderful would understand - after all, I've been following him on Twitter for two weeks, we're sure to have developed rapport.

The next day was better. It was a public holiday, so I didn't have to beg, bite or steal for a day off Prac to nurse the hangover. Instead, I picked up Bob and a couple of bottles of Stones Ginger Beer, and we hit the frog 'n' toad for the cog to end all pointless cogs. First to harass Lollie at work for having run out of koala-print fabric which only ever existed in theory; she was repentant, and gave us two helium balloons. I kept mine tethered to the backseat of my car, but Bob let his go in the carpark of a Redcliffe pub, because Bob's party always ends early.

We had fish and chips and a heartfelt yak, basked in the sun as well as the bright future of yuppie toddlers plonking their Pumpkin Patch bums down in the approximate twelve inches of sand that passed for a beach. Bob pointed out that it didn't really feel like a proper beach, because there were no waves, and you could see what the residents on the opposite shore were watching on telly. But hey, the guy let his balloon go without so much as a sniff of ceremony. What the hell does he know anyway.


... Kidding.

Top Five Reasons My Year Ones Are Awesome:

1) It's the only time in my life I can stand up in a room full of people and be the tallest one there.
2) Their handwriting is basically illegible, and they can never remember which words need a capital letter. Fwockin', Same Here, Eh.
3) During a lesson on marsupials today, Ryan raised his hand to say I was "allowed to come to his birthday party at Hungry Jack's."  Thanks man, but my dietician disagrees.
4) I'm no wallflower while lining up for P.E. - it's the first time ever two boys have asked to hold my hand.
5) I can read them Enid Blighton without anyone sniggering about the name Fanny, the term golliwogs or the word queer. Year 7's, however, are thoroughly queer in the Fanny when it comes to outdated colloquialisms.

So. Prac is going relatively well. I've taken three full days so far, and gotten to talk a lot about wombats. It's cool, 'cos I dig wombats. My sister says I resemble one, which is probably fair, because wombat dudes are heaps rotund and have short little legs and I can imagine that, at some point in the distant future, I will have let my personal grooming go enough to cultivate bunches of hair ON my nose. My own stuntpeg-legs are already having trouble seeing the forest for the trees - the key word in epilator, after all, is LATOR.

The Varukers played in the Valley last night, and Lauz and I went in together. The dive du jour was the Step Inn, a half-gentrified, half-decrepit post-war pisshole which lies equidistant from a sex shop and a Centrelink. I'm a long-time fan of The Step. I used to work in the Valley, so spent most of last year upstairs requesting Winger at its monthly Glam Night, or sinking one of its appalling selection of local beers and using the Space Invaders game unit as a coaster. There's always some dodgy cunt in there, checkin' the scene, sniffin' the loo lolly and talkin' smack 'bout smack, and last night was no exception.

If you go to Brisbane punk shows long enough, you get to know everyone. That may seem obvious, but what I mean is, you get to know EVERYONE, even if you've never seen them before. There are always the regular faces, and plenty of them, ranging from good friends to pretty shapes you've exchanged fleeting few words with regarding Matyrdod bootlegs; then there are the Irregulars. There are always one or two of these, often first-wave punks - the people who rode the bandwagon until it pulled in for a pitstop and got replaced with a flogged dead horse; the people who now have families and mortgages, or a heroin habit and crows feet around their neck tattoos; the people who make an extra special effort for an iconic overseas band, like the Varukers, and haul arse for a Wednesday night gig at a shitty ghetto shangri-la such as the Step that they mightn't otherwise touch with a ten-foot French stick. Then there are the tourists. I love these guys. They see a poster hanging around town, head on in for a laugh and a mosh, probably expecting a heftier crowd than the 15 infected noserings who've turned up to push each other about in front of the one-metre-square stage yelling 'Soldier Boy! Play fuckin' Soldier Boy!'

There were two Tourists present last night. The Scandinavian took his shirt off to stuff in the rear of his skinny jeans. That was good. Two of the tubby tradies ditched their wifebeaters to join his cause. That was a little bit less good. One dude, who had tree-trunk-thick dreads so long he'd cut a hole in the back of his hoodie to accommodate them, tried to take his shirt off too but the dreads got tangled and it all seemed too hard. And that, my friends, was not good, but truly amazing.

The second Tourist was Joe, who plays in a Japanese noisepunk band called Exit Hippies. He's moved to the Gold Coast to study, and spent much of the night pointing to his arse and going 'hey-ey-ey-ey-ey' in liu of hurdling that pesky language barrier. As we were leaving he was sprawling over a low table, mouth wide open, screeching in delight. He reminded me of Long Duck Dong and I wanted so badly to watch him jump from a tree singing, 'oh sexy girlfriiiiiiend!' C'mon, man. I'll pay for the diamond jumper and everything.

Outside for some air, we were approached by an Aboriginal woman trying to palm off her paint-wasted 'nephew' (nuh) so she could 'pop inside for a quick drink.' I deftly avoided babysitting duty by thrusting a gig flyer in her face and telling her to call my people at Acid Hammer to book in a time. Punk fuckin' oi.

I don't think I'm 100% clear on the concept of Karma. Is it one of those 'what goes around comes around' kind of things? 'Do Unto Others Lest You Get Shot Twice In The Face With A Kebab Made Of Underpants?' Or is it more the understanding that, for every good day you have, there's a total rubbish one headed right for you at no extra cost? Whatever, I guess. All I know is that after the stupendous Marathon O'Fun that was last weekend, there was no way this one wasn't going to be a letdown - but even I'm surprised at how completely ridiculous the last 24 hours have been.

There's a quirk with my brand new phone. Whenever it loses reception, even if for just a few moments, it shuts itself off. Must have happened last night, at some point between my setting my alarm for 6 a.m. for work and having the cat jump on my face at 7.30. I arrived at IGA an hour late to find that I was to be working with the 35 year-old Playboy Bunny bogan, the one who never shuts up about  her long-gone salad days as a marching girl and a bikini model and a cheerleader for rapists the Brisbane Broncos. Has anyone seen that Hollywood cinemabortion, The House Bunny? 'Meleena' (two e's) is basically identical to the apple of Colin Hanks' eye in that film, if you add an antipodean upbringing, a relentless faith in astrology and approximately 12 kilograms of Revlon that appears to be slathered on with an eggflip. I was tired to begin with, but after six hours of incessant banter about how she 'walks on the ball of my foot, see? Isn't that weird? Most people walk with their heel and some people walk with both but I use the ball because when you march you kinda have to,' I was just about ready to spit live ducks. But, despite this, I was polite. She is my co-worker, and she deserves respect, as does everyone. I smiled at her jokes, I let her read my palm. And when the shift ended, I scurred away without a sour word, although I suppose this LJ entry undoes all my goodwill.

After work,  I made plans with Bob to cog or not lunch or something wicked rowdy like that, but these were thwarted when I had to go pick up dad from the clinic. On the way back from the city, with my highly-strung, newly medicated Dad in the passenger seat, some fuckhead in a Mazda changed lanes at 120 kph WITHOUT INDICATING, and very nearly cleaned us up. I slammed on the brakes, and my car spiralled towards the barrier but, I dunno, Peter Brock and his racing deity must have been smiling down on me at that point and I managed to correct the car without killing anyone. I beeped the horn, swore like a sailor, all the time hyper-aware of my Dad's potential for cardiac malfunction and feeling really, REALLY fucking bad about it. When we got back to the house he left straight away. I made him promise to message me when he made it back to Allora. God, that'd suck - to have spent the weekend trying to save your own life only to have it threatened in a flash by a fucking MAZDA driver? The injustice is simply too great.

Tonight, Davies and the guys were drinking at the Storey Bridge Hotel. I knew it wouldn't be my scene particularly, but thought nothing more of it - I went about my preparations as usual. Shower, shave, all the usual bits and bobs, moisturise with honey-blossom bullshit. Painstakingly select an outfit, shoes, hair up or down? Curly or straight? Then on with the face - concealer, liquid foundation for coverage, powder foundation for a matte non-greasy finish; lip balm to soften, lip colour to stun, lip liner to define; liquid eyeliner for the top lid, sturdy pencil for the bottom; eyeshadow, expertly blended; blush, mascara and curler. 'Why the fuck are you telling us all this?' I hear you femiNazi wowsers scream. 'No one needs your step-by-step recipe for oppression!' But, guys. I'm not saying it for YOU. It's for all the fuckheads tonight. The ones who, although I know I'm relatively clever and loyal and make a keen coconut rumball, have left me feeling about three inches tall and 9000 kg tonight. The ones who've run down my self-esteem to the point where I would consider a full-being transplant with the illegitimate lovechild of Shane McGowan and Susan Boyle.

I picked up Tonci from Oxley and headed to the Storey Bridge. The place was packed with square-toes and smart casuals. We grabbed a beer and headed for the front bar. I accidentally caught the eye of someone sitting next to the door, a whispy-haired trendy with designer stubble - for the record, the exact OPPOSITE of my type. As I walked past he ducked his head and gave this long, breathy snort, before bursting into laughter and going, 'FAT chance.' Before I even knew what was happening, I'd leaned over and given an acrid, mimicking snort of the same disgust and duration he'd shown. 'FUCK head.' Not my Magnum Opus of insults by any means, but I felt it got my point across.

I tried to play it cool, but it did really upset me. I thought I'd done pretty well not to cry, especially considering the pure idiocy of it all - I hadn't given him so much as a smouldering glance. Hadn't noticed him at all, actually, save for the fact that he was sitting by the door and his bum-chin had forgotten to shed. What I never understand about these situations - and there've been a few of them in my time - is that your attacker doesn't ever tell you anything you don't already KNOW. Unattractive people are more than aware of their unattractiveness, always. We carry it with us daily, and the weight of it - along with the weight of our mutliple spare tyres - makes us grunt. Every time we look in the mirror - hello, horror. Every time we get caught unawares on camera - god forbid, put that red-herring-cross-Appaloosa face away. So yeah, we know about it. Why the need to verbally reinforce? Who is born with such cruelty in their genes?

Either way, it didn't take us long to leave after that. We went to the Tank Bar for a botched re-hash of Glam Night. The Tank, although working under a different title and different theme tonight, was as empty as I've ever seen it. Witness the dance floor - that desk o' dark harm in the right hand corner is the DJ booth, although I didn't manage to snap a pic of the delectable hair-metal Adonis spinning discs there -




This was the best part of the night. I actually had a great time, singing along to Tyketto and chatting with Tonch & Jess, not to mention having almost totally free range at the bar due to a lack of ANYBODY else being there. Jess' brother Cal turned up, and brought with him an old school mate, Fuckhead No. 2. I managed to give him the wrong directions to the toilets - pretty brave of me to tackle the task at all, really, considering I've never once been male enough to warrant a visit to the Den - and upon his return, he calls me a silly tart, and blames me for his embarassing rendez vous with a lady staffer in the female bogs. Well, fuckin', sorry and all, but is there any need to be a prick about it? He sat in the corner and added sarcastic, derisive comments to everything I said for the rest of the night, naturally opting out of joining us when we decided to ditch the empty dive for O'Malleys.

I walked up the stairs first, then Ali, then Jessamy, then Emma. Emma was called back by security guards to leave her drink by the door, so she tried to call up to me to wait. I couldn't quite hear her, so descended a few steps, meaning I shared a stoop with Ali. I loitered there for seriously a milisecond trying to establish Emma's message, but the next thing I knew I was getting jostled by some broad-shouldered fuckstick with a 'tude twice the assumed length and circumference of his porksword. 'Don't fuckin' mind me then aye, I'll just try and squeeze through that little tiny space, will I? Fuck's sake.' This tirade knighted him Fuckhed No. 3.

By this time, I was well and truly over it. We got to O'Malleys, and the air inside my head was muggy with discontent. I stayed half an hour, trying to laugh with the guys, trying to talk myself out of being insecure and silly, trying to remember the night was still young and could improve rapidly if only I gave it a chance and gave up my self-loathing for just one minute. It didn't work. I got up to leave - and couldn't fit through the chairs between the neighbouring tables. I tried to push myself through, but my belt buckle got caught on some guy's chair, and the look he gave me.. welcome to the fold, Fuckhed No. 4. Come on down. And BYO chair to sit on when you do, because I'm pretty 'attached' to this one.

What has me in total disbelief about all of this is that I have no idea what I did to DESERVE all of this poor luck. Maybe people can tell I'm a waster on sight, it's possible, but it's rarely happened en masse before today. It's not like I called any of these people names (until now, haha). I didn't key their car, steal their wallet or their girl, insult their mama or even request an unpopular song on the Jukebox. So why the Fuckstick Foursome? There is no reason. It's purely coincidence, just a dodgy night out in an unlucky time and space. But god to fuck and heaven, it feels awful. I will wake up tomorrow morning still wishing my ugliness away.

Oh, also. Upon ringing to claim on the dodgy gadget's warranty this morning, the Vodafone representative hastened to tell me it was a deliberate 'safety' feature of the phone and thus not covered under warranty. Should I choose to change models of phone, I would be required to continue paying off this obliterate heap of shit regardless. Fail.

When I was driving down the Riverside Expressway today, I noticed all these notepads and textbooks - literally  tens of them - littering the road near the QUT exit. Looks like a bunch of students have gone all Reality Bites on the future value of their leatherbounds. Kath's in exam block this week, so some people must have already finished - good for them. Less good for the person who busts a tyre by hitting Latchworth's Guide to Medicinal Mediocrity at 90 kph, less good for the bloke whose job it is to clean that shit up - but good for them. I've often wanted to toss remnants of the last four years of my life out the window of a moving car, but I'm too apprehensive of the trouble it would cause to everyone else.

So that's it, then. 25. I won't lie - I was worried. Dreading it, actually. Mid-twenties seems ok from an outsider's point of view, but it leads to bigger things. Early 30's, for example, and then late 30's. And then late 30's again for half a decade until you build up the courage to admit to late 40's, and when that happens - BAM! Before you know it you're breezing through Kenmore in an import convertible wearing a sponsorship cap and Ray-Bans. Jesus Christ, could feel a mid-life crisis coming on.

Luckily for me, I have the most amazing friends and family in the entire world, and they tried their darnedest to bbq my troubles away. Jemma made the trip up from Toowoomba, with an awesome Penguin Classics novel to delight me; Lizzie turned up in something sparkly and sequined, to distract me; Kath busted her chops charring chops in order to feed me; Lauren and Lucie and Alex and Tom Roche turned up to provide me with plenty of fresh meat to tear apart with my bare puns and Tanya and Rob freakin' MADE UP A DANCE TO KENNY ROGERS. It's the funniest thing in the world and I'll try to upload it when I've next got four hours to spare on it. Pure gold. Good night.

The next night, Saturday, I started out at Jessamy's 21st at Dooleys. I made both a fool AND a speech out of myself, for which Jessamy being a superior flatmate to 'punk dickheads and drug addicts' was great inspiration. Her parents expected nothing less from the girl who once compared an oil painting in their kitchen to a botched abortion, and were quite good sports really. I posed for 7000 photographs and stuck four ham slices in my mouth at once. Class.

Next I trekked over to meet up with Lollie and Lauz, who were showng patronage to $6 cocktails at the Tank bar, with some rubbish 'Punk vs. Metal Clash of the Subcultures' thing going on in the background. It wasn't so much a clash as an irritable rub. Rash of the Subcultures may have been more apt a description, if that didn't elude to contagious properties. I only caught Sled (terrible pop-skater-hardcore-rot? I forget), and Brisbane's probably first and maybe even only pirate metal tribute band, Scuurvy. I must have enjoyed their set because I walked out with five bumper stickers and a t-shirt, but I get the feeling that I wouldn't have if the cocktails were, say, even $8 each. Damn, girl. Gotta walk the plank for that purchasing indiscretion.

The Tank is a great venue, and typical of basically all 'alternative' club nights in Brisbane. It's two levels, with modern furnishings and syringe disposal units in the bathrooms and all the hipster trimmings. Unfortunately, it's always also three-quarters empty. This probably has to do with the quality of goth DJing upstairs and off-key guitar thrashing downstairs rather than the bar, but I can't stress the deliciousness of knowing the Human Internet Meme herself, Scarlet Jezabel, has performed her own crotch-smothering Burlesque routine on the very same patch of carpet I am now haplessly covering in $6 cocktail. Amazing, and Why Are We Die.

There really weren't many people I knew, but I'd met the rad skater redhead, Eamonn, once or twice before around the traps. He and his mate Simo joined us for a pint at O'Malleys after the medicrity of pop punk got too much, and once we'd been Last Call'd out of there we did the unthinkable - We. Went. To. THRILLER.

The emo club! The club night responsible for the last great toilet flooding at Rosies (someone tried to flush a beer bottle - backwards). Bloody Thriller! The undisputed Mecca of Debora Harry revival hair and Fires Inside and someone or other's Chemical Romance panicking about Discos whilst designing the knuckle tats they're going to get when they turn 19. On any other occasion I would've refused outright, but be fair - it's Brisbane, and it's Saturday, and I'm 25 and there's nothing else open. I pay my 12 bucks and run into Kurt at the door. Dallied about awhile, danced with some lesbians, requested some Darkthrone and left with Lollie, Eamonn and Simo for home. Well, their home.

I'm never sure how these nights happen. My internal monologue is a stuttery Sped kid at the best of times, but add a post-beer slur to the mix and it seems ludicrous my cerebrum can process anything at all. I don't remember either of the boys wiping the last of the Guinness foam from their lips and declaring, 'mad keen party at mine, yeah?' I certainly don't remember us asking for one. There was no bureacracy or formality at all, no discussion of 'oh hey, you live vaguely sort of in the same direction as we're going, might be prudent to share a cab.' We just piled in and poured out ten minutes later, into a dirty curb on a strip of Op Shops and cafes that are never open, the Horn of Africa Employment Agency a gleaming comedic beacon reaching out to our future mockery. Good old Annerley. Just like a chocolate Sudan, only Bogans.

The four of us sat on the balcony talking until it was light enough to see the neighbourhood bum on the stoop of the municipal library opposite. Eamonn and I bored the others senseless with comparative nostalgia - Top Five Stoner Bands, Power Rangers who became murderers, and the like. We're the same age, which is an increasingly rare treat in a stranger these days, and it fueled a lot of over-zealous high-fiving. He and Lollie burnt out around dawn but Simo and I made coffee and chirped through the sunrise.

Simo was a nice kid. Lithe, with chunky black square-frames, Sailor Jerry sleeve tattoos and a young generous heart full of stories to tell. He tried to enlighten me on the nuances and origins of 'deathcore,' which, as far as I can tell, is a term fabricated and used exclusively by Job For A Cowboy fans to help justify their ongoing presence in Terrorizer magazine (bleh). We played City and Colour, Extortion, Sick of It All; talked about hardcore and girlfriends and boyfriends and huge Croatian dads and flatmates and ex-flatmates and potatoes that rot and leave a stench worse than Satan's taco. He showed me his Transformers. And then I walked home.

Rocked into work at 12 and was sent home at 2 when my the dragon supervisor lady caught me trying to mime at a customer. I had no voice. I was perfectly happen to be there, but my mute protest fell on deaf ears. People can be so blind. Bahaha.

Throughout my whole life, I have always made mix tapes. Mix tapes for singing, dancing, sleeping, crying, pining, walking, driving, cooking, doing the dishes, cleaning the house. Compilations of songs by themes or title, mixes to impress crushes or to 'educate' friends.

When I was growing up, my dad had a bad-ass benchtop in the living room, home to a black plastic Amazon of playback relics and tangled wires. The vinyl player hooked up to a duel cassette deck, top of the range; this is turn connected to the VCR, which dutifully recorded the TV program of your choice, without any known risk of infringement of piracy laws. The whole system was flanked by two enormous stand-alone speakers, unfaltering obelisks of dark foam mesh and linoleum woodgrain. Every Sunday I would be out of bed at 6 a.m., unwrapping a virgin cassette upon which to tape Rage. Jann Arden, Joan Osbourne, Tracy Bonham, Alanis Morrissette. Butthole Surfers, Bono, 'White Town,' Seal. Coolio, Real McCoy, Toni Braxton, Bone Thugz 'n' Harmony, the Godzilla soundtrack - the 90's was a glorious time for mediocrity, and my mix tapes witnessed it all.

The year I turned 15, I got my own portable stereo for Christmas. Taping the radio was rarely an option, as Allora couldn't pick up FM on a cloudy day and the AM stations were always full of old Poms waffling on about their rose bushes, boring. Thankfully, my prized posession offered the freshly revolutionary CD player atop a single shining cassette deck. Where previously I had whittled away my days devouring Home Brand cheese snacks/ the frivolous giberish of Ann M. Martin's baby-sitting skankwhores, I suddenly had access to all kinds of exciting static. I would lock myself in my room for hours on end, whole days even, until my execution of the Perfect Playlist was complete. In one fell swoop, silverchair's Steam Will Rise would morph into Jewel's Foolish Games, then retreat starkly into Blink 182's Lemmings and then, I dunno, something by Bad Religion. Twelve tracks by Bad Religion. And then some live, non-studio tracks by Bad Religion. Greg Graffin's solo act. And more Bad Religion.

By the time I'd left school, I'd well and truly clicked that music could soak up far more soppy nostalgia than the floundering duh-sponge we call the Brain. Making a genuine, honest mix tape, however CRAP, was like writing a shopping list or dog-earing a page in a favourite novel. Come back later, it's still there, and it's still potent. Trying to rewind - to edit, to enhance, to erase some dorkiness here and inject a credibility snippet there - would only be lying to yourself. And that's why, every year since 2004, I've made a Christmas and New Year's mix full of all the songs I've loved. Or hated. Or sung, danced or fucked to. It's not an art piece, it's not something I'm looking to show off. It's an honest representation. It's an Index of personal history. And mostly, it's a bit shit.

Anyway. The reaction of my contemporaries to all of the above has always fallen somewhere between outright taunts, tolerance and pure visceral terror, but never before has anyone displayed any actual INTEREST in these devoted manifestos of fandom. The supervisor at my last job misinterpreted the intentions of 'Rad Shit For Dan - Check Out Track Three!!' to the point where he swapped shifts to avoid me and my obvious yearning for his skinny dork buns. The lass who'd been missing for six months - I made her a mix, just to catch her up on the significant musical discoveries of the year. It didn't burn properly, wouldn't play - and she didn't bother to tell me. So I guess not everyone can groove the way this Helenkrusher Motherfucker grooves.

But tonight I hit the dog tracks with my favourite Bobbin and a couple o' cohorts. I've met Selise and Luke before and I knew I liked them. They're clever, they're interesting, and we share common views re: decor-print toilet paper and Tom Gabel's superiority to all known life forms. But tonight was something new, and very exciting. They suggested the Stick 'Em Up Club.

As far as I can gather, the Club is a modern-day take on traditional tape trading. The theme is emailed around the list - Songs of Summer, for example, or Totally Inappropriate Use of Orchestral Instruments - and there's a common USB stick. Selise uploads twelve songs relevant to the chosen theme, as does Luke, and whoever else signs up for the ride. Personally, I'm stoked on the idea. I hope I get to include some Bad Religion.

... Just kidding.

Yoga was cancelled today as Mahesh-Sambu-Maheshwa-Bhakti (not his real name) hath fallen backwards over his Chakra and injured his leg. I could have gone for a canter over the Green Bridge to UQ, as I've taken to in recent times, or a brisk walk along the river with Spinnerette in my ears but instead, I fetched a bottle of plum wine from the liquor store and settled in for some good old-fashioned home meditative thinking. It lasted for the entire minute before NCIS came on. Mmm, Denozo. I'll Downward YOUR dog!

 A lot of shit has been going down recently, but at this point, the only thing of which I'm truly afraid is forgetting the single most amazing night in history. Tom Gabel, Chuck Ragan, the best bunch of ladyfriends any chick could hope for and an arseload of Tourettes Guy quotes - much, MUCH more on this later.

I am going to see my course convenor at Griffith tomorrow. I seek explanation as to why I, having attended every tute and lecture, completed every reading, and submitted every piece of assessment, am still in critical danger of failing the course. Am I so immeasurably incompetent that, despite spurning many exhorbitant lifestyle indulgences such as Having Friends and Leaving The House in favour of studying, I still have to struggle for every mark? Additionally, if there are avenues for improvement that I haven't previously mapped out, maybe the convenor could, y'know, hook a brother up? These pleas may well be met with a coolly academic 'Talk to the hand 'cos the high-brow don't give a damn,' but I'm running out of options.

These nose-to-the-grindstone woes would be easy enough to deal with if I felt like I was getting some kind of karmic support, but the Cosmos appears pretty well out to get me right now. Having spent the day being dictated to by Canadian group-work enthusiasts, suffering through three solid hours of maths tutorial and searching in vain for an appropriate text to back my 'Lost In Space' drama unit plan, I was late handing in said unit plan and was snapped by Constable Kodak travelling at 75 kph in a 60 zone. Two hundred bucks, three points - I'm not even sure I have that left, after the collossal Lol-fest that was my Newcastle roadtrip on NYE 2007.

There was no hot water at work on Sunday night, as Body Corporate were still too busy twiddling their thumbs inside their jam-holes to do anything about fixing it. It was Deep Clean night - the one night a week everything gets pulled out of the display cabinets so we can scrub 'em on down with hygienic blood, sweat and elbow grease. This usually takes hours, but being that I had to potter back and forth with buckets of boiling water from the furnace in the tea room to wash everything, included but not limited to the cases and the chicken oven, I didn't get out of there until way past my bedtime. Some of the new managerial policies to mark-downs and wastage have a lot of my customers flippin' the proverbial bird, too, so it was good times all fwockin' round. In my witless exhaustion I forgot to sign off at the end of the night. A nine-and-a-half hour shift for which I will not get paid this week, leaving me with the grand remuneration of $52 from Saturday and the cost of a couple of garlic-filled olives I pilfered.

Also I did this quiz on Facebook just now. I wasn't happy with the result so I did it twice. First time it told me I was Kurt Cobain. Second time round I'd managed to morph into Roseanne Barr. Collectively, I am an obese and melancholy drug fiend. I'd be fucked off if it weren't so bloody accurate.

The one bright light on the horizon is that Thursday is finally TOM GABEL DAY! The world may well screech to a halt on its axis and gyrate suggestively where it stands. I've got tickets for Kat, Kath, Lollie and myself, and considering purchasing an extra for Bob in case he tries to weasel out of going. I have treated this event with the same relentless quest for perfection many people save for their wedding day, which was sensible, given Roseanne-Kurt-Helen-Barr's abysmal romantic track record. There will be gin in place of champagne and Kinderwhore frocks in lieu of a gown, but hey, I may still get Pammy and Tommy tattooed around my ring finger - in the wise words of Tom himself, sometimes a party takes you places that you didn't really plan on going.

Haha, this is truly amazing:

http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/34575959.html

About a million cultural revolutions ago, someone from my first Livejournal account made me a mixed cd entitled 'Country Music For Helen.' It was the result of a heated argument regarding my unyielding thesis of 'country music is gay. Punk fuckin' oi.' Five years on, I've found it in an old shoebox full of guff and it has been given its maiden voyage in my cd player. The Old Crow Medicine Show experience has broadened my horizons, and they now stretch the entire distance of a honky-tonk keyboard. The horizons are heading left from the Cumberland gap, through Johnson City, Tennessee. Hank Williams is no longer so lonesome he could cry, because I'm right there by his side, whittling a doodad. It's something that I am keeping relatively quiet for the meantime though. Apart from having to deal with Bob and Lollie's flanellette-clad arm folding and toothless hick tsk tsk tsks, I'm not yet clear on the true meaning behind 'I'm going to snowball Jackson.' I wouldn't want to be caught out whistling a jaunty Johnny Cash tune among the cotton fields only to find out I've advocating the dual concepts of recycling and giving head.

Moving on. Today, obviously, was a public holiday for Easter, meaning the weekend could start last night. Eager to drown the hangover which had persisted since our martini lounge adventure, I dragged Lollie and her entourage of Scotch mixers to a good old fashioned metal party, hosted by the ubiquitous Papa Geeks and Defamer. It came complete with such torn-and-soiled arguments as 'Blackwater Park > Deliverance,' and 'Sam's beard makes him gay.' My favourite was 'hardcore fashion has usurped punk ideology,' which then led to further debate, genre definition disputes, Henry Rollins vehemence and booze-and-youth-fuelled chronological inaccuracies. Good times.

We didn't know anyone there initially, aside from Geeks and Jimmy, but we loosened up after a few king-hits from Lollie's Canadian Club and started engaging. First came the idle chit-chat ( 'I like your hair colour. Are you sunburnt or just embarassed?') Then came the Richard  Cheese vs. Disturbed singalong ('get up, come on, get down with the sickness - JAZZ SOLO!') and  then - if you can believe it - came the rap. Dale started beat boxing, I got in on the flow; Joel challenged me second, and won hands down. Even button-down dork Lachlan Dowling gave it a red hot burn. None of us had any natural rhythm whatsoever, but we glossed on over that with skinny lilly-white-boy determination and glee, until the twinkle of the stars and the irridescent flickering of the neighbouring McDonalds sign had faded into pinkish dawn. Joel, by this time, had fallen asleep with his mouth somewhat ajar, and his hands cupping an empty beer bottle near his crotch; this was swiftly replaced by a novelty bottle opener in the shape of an enormous black penis. We put a ten cent coin between his teeth and his gums in case he needed to cross the river Styx in his dreams. Or, you know, go through a toll booth. We're pretty considerate like that.


I drove us home around 7 am, dropping Lachlan and his mate off at Newmarket, before bundling Lollie into the spare room for her 7-hour nap while I prepared to go to work. I rolled in late, nursing compounded hangovers on a diet of no sleep and McChicken grease. I won't lie to you - it was hard. The deli was packed, both with staff and with wares. The customers were bustling and seething with consumptive desperation, completely vexed by the prospect of Coles and Woolies being closed for two entire days. 'Do you know whtere X is?' 'Would you stock Y?' 'I'm actually after a very specific, totally organic, incredibly rare and needlessly expensive brand of Z - what do you mean you don't have it?!'  I kept telling myself that the reason I went back to uni this year was so that I had other options, and dark days like this didn't end up shit-storming on my collective Life Parade. Ah well.

Tomorrow I think we're considering a road trip to NSW to visit Bob. If it happens, I think I should take this mix cd. We can hear all our crying/lying/dying with our whistling dixie as we watch the sun go down. Sounds like a plan to me.

Spike's birthday bash last night was a blast. Nine ratty, tattooed punks yelping and wailing through the plush halls of the Casino, making a loud and expletive beeline for the martini bar and the Long Island Iced Teas within it. It sounds a little bit juvenile, but it was actually really a lot juvenile. There was an essence of Spice Girls film clip about it, a definite air of Wannabe - but without any of us dancing on the tables in platforms. To be fair, that was more the Casino's failing than ours. There were no tables. Only chaise lounges and burgundy.

Still, it was awesome to catch up with a couple of people I haven't seen in years. Jamie has been back from the UK for quite awhile, but living in Toowoomba - he's off to India again soon, the lucky sod. I hope he gets dysentery and/or chased by a bear. Lollie and I both have our plans for reigning and conquering foreign soil - y'know, if they let us have a visa - but she doesn't seem to think too highly of mine.

Me - Man, I can't wait to go to Norway.

Her - Pfft. You just want to go for the metal.

And then she rolled her eyes. I hope the Indian population in London gives her dysentery and/or she gets chased by a bear. One of those big, homo, London dude bears with all the chest-hair and chains.

Now I have approximate three hours to write 8 pages of assignment. If I get it done, it's out for Thai food with the beautiful ladies tonight, followed by a brash little gasbag with Brismetal peepdawgs at Geeks' house. The Easter holidays are nearly here - and I still have dorky Canadians emailing me about tutorial group work. Jeez, guys. You've got snow over there, right?  Learn 2B kool.

Gah, blah. Can't sleep. Somewhere between the cappuccino at breakfast and the Jolt cola at work my poor palpitating heart  has had to suck it up and suck on down on an uncommon dose of Ventolin. Barking like a battered dog at every customer who dared approach me, coughing on their chickens, spluttering on their smallgoods - oh god, I can feel it building again. The same evil clogging sickness that took me by surprise last year, before I knew I had asthma. Only this time I know I have it, but the treatments aren't working. This bloody puffer does shit all. Told be the God-honest truth, it makes it worse. I feel like I am breathing through a burnt sponge. Nothing is moving, it's all too brittle. I don't want to end up in hospital at 2 a.m. again - especially because I only just paid the bill from last time -  but I'm really craving a cold plastic nebuliser blasting pure liquid steroids, and my black market doc is out harvesting kidneys. Shit of a situation, considering how hard I worked to avoid the cold in the first place. All that Lemsip, wasted. And the scarves only resulted in skin rash.

My painfully inadequate lungs are the only thing that truly worries me about moving overseas. Australia, for all its bland, disinteresting flaws, is a pretty tepid landscape. Look at us, halfway through Autumn and I've not so much as thought about taking a jumper out when I go for my witless dawdles. But then, perhaps that's the problem. I don't feel the cold, so I don't realise I'm getting cold. Cold enough to get sick. But can you imagine me in England, in Europe? Frickin', I'd have to buy a pair of sneakers that don't have holes all over them, for a start. I highly doubt my $15 Dunlop Volleys would hold up amazingly well in the snow, even if they were the most dedicated pair of 2005. I'd need socks probably, a big coat, maybe some kind of hat - I just look SO ridiculous in hats, it's not even possible to accurately declare. I would have to look after myself. Take loads of vitamins. Eat right. Keep my constitution up. Fuckin' hell, how's all that supposed to mesh with living wild and free in an endless series of run-down hostels shared equally between German students, Norwegian artists and massive rodents? If I down a handful of Inner Health Plus before I embark on my Belgian beer binges, will it poison my ignorant gizzards? And when I'm halfway up Mt Elbrus, will I have to go, 'wait, bros. Hang on. How high? Fuck, didn't know about that. Back to the village for me, altitude's no match for the fickle bitches in my ribcage.'  I don't want it to hold me back - but more than that, I don't want it to stop me from going. I have worked too hard, planned for too long, and daydreamed with too much fervour. Fuck it. I'll move to Siberia if the mood strikes me (and they have cable). If I end up in an iron lung, at least I can stop worrying about what to wear.