Don’t Fist me again Fate

Winter is well over, time is continuing along its passage and I am getting more haggard by the minute. As usual I am hungover at my place of work and in this post inebriated state I feel my eloquence flow as I wax lyrical about all the mundane and minute occurrences in my life.

Whilst I won’t go into too much detail, due to the fact one’s online life is only a few key word searches away from discovery, and I still harbor desires to run for political office one day, I will spin a yarn or two about what the heck has been happening in my personal echo chamber. It could be said that the world is changing and surely it is only a matter of time before we see more radicals take over from the conservative drones. That last sentence has a tinge of conspiracy theorist about it, probably best to cloak my tin foil hat for a while longer, lest the lizard people catch on.

Fuck, I sound cooked. These words I am typing are pure drivel. Hopefully the blurred Iphone photography I intend on including pull this disastrous post  up from Fritzls basement.

My pessimism and general disdain for many facets of life has taken a backseat recently as I am really just enjoying living it large in Hobart town. At times I reflect and consider  why in the world this is the case, as in reality I should no doubt be smitten with overwhelming dis-ease caused by hitting the big 30 21 and ensuing existential doubt that so many of my contemporaries vocalize as all consuming. However, I just don’t. I don’t know if this stems from getting to a point where I actually feel ok about my past partners, and the lessening of that part of myself which maintains a self destructive tendency of holding on to them. Or perhaps it’s due in part to attempting to be an active rather than passive participant in my life, concentrating on the things I enjoy doing, and not the things I feel society tries to impress upon me are important. However, it’s highly likely I am just stupid, without the proper emotional or intellectual depth to really understand the gravity of living life without a plan.

I’m glad I came back to Hobart, I needed to ground myself back here and process a few things in my mind. I can’t deny that tension in my soul has tightened however, due to the immediacy of Duncan being back in town, and the likelihood of us having to cross paths. Whilst I say I am ok about past relationships, this one threw me off kilter so heavily I did not think I would get back up. Not to delve too deep here, but the reality of he and I not being at peace keeps me constantly unsettled and so very sad. I do think he is aware of how this affects me, and whilst I admit that basically I fucked up so hard that this relationship had no choice but to combust, I can’t shoulder all the blame. I guess we shall see how it pans out. No doubt, it’ll be an anti climax and my mind will dissolve from this state of equilibrium back into negativity with my state of mind whack once more. Should this happen I imagine my predisposition to cut and run will come in handy, as I head on out to Japan, Europe and Canada. Life is a rollercoaster. Not dealing with issues is fun.

Ugh I feel seedy. Barely three hours have past in the Gulag. How will I keep myself entertained for the remainder of the day. I sit and await my day old burger defrost, a gift from a fine young gentleman yesterday. I might sign off and stare at room one vacantly for a while.

Just one final aside, the best interactions I have had at this hostel the past two days are with a lively character by the name of ‘Wade’, who seems to be travelling with his own personal television. Where yesterday as he passed reception he inquired as to whether I would like anything from the supermarket, quantifying it by another question of ‘maybe some cigarettes?’, to which I politely declined. And just a moment ago a very similar situation occurred, however this time the item he seemed to think I would appreciate was cabana. To quote ‘You sure, no cabana? You all cabana-ed out?’ I’m not sure when he thought I had been consuming cabana. I like the word though. Cabana. Ugh I’m dying here, I’m too old and growing mould for my hangover.

 

Peace

My best friend had to go yesterday. I will miss him for the rest of my life. 

Pictures worth a Pittance

A smeared shot of Douglas-Apsley

Gotham and the never ending loop

“To the Bridge!”

Wheelbag looking so unimpressed with Mikes parmie and pot combo

I thought I’d never see you again

A potato

Life is Killing me

These two images are basically the only thing making me happy at the moment. I’d like to delete my brain pls.

Trousers

Wow wow wowsers!

Ugh I think I have African sleeping sickness again, or else I have self diagnosed myself with some obscure illness to hide the fact that I am just so inherently lazy I can barely function on any normal level of human existence.

Woah what the heck is this, my diary? Time to get off the emotion and into the low brow humor that only I appreciate because only I read this. Being back in Hobes is treating me well, I’m coming to accept not being at Hotham and Taylor and Sam are major contributions to this feeling of ease. I love those two so dang much.

The jokes aren’t flowing so I may sign off with some snaps instead.

Guess Whose Black?

Well it’s definitely not HB. Anyone who knows me (and I apologize for that), will no doubt have heard one of my three rotating anecdotes, in particular the one where an Ethiopian lady told me I was the whitest person she had ever seen with black hair. She then went on to qualify that ‘I was so white… like I was sick… like I was dying’. Am I really so white the fish don’t bite? Probably. But my heart is as dark as my hair, so you can shuffle off sir.

Regardless of my transparency, it’s once again the time to revive this relic of literary genius and weave my magic words once more. Several snow seasons into my late twenties and quite a few years between me and any form of viable long term career have led me to feel a strange mixture of sadness, uncertainty and melancholy juxtaposed with elation, freedom and a strong sense of self. Every day I am unsure where I will end up but this is also what I believe to be essential to staying my truest self, for I think nothing drains my will to live than stagnation and routine. Not to sound too much like a cliche but I don’t think I was ever a suitable candidate for a life behind a desk or in front of a computer. Finishing my law degree was great and working for those 3 weeks as a lawyer was also rewarding, however since retiring I feel like I can do what ever I want with my life. I guess I just need to keep moving forward, which to be honest, is also something I struggle with. Getting stuck in the past is no good for anyone, not even Marty Mcfly could get away with it without hooking up with his mum. My mum has very thin glips which are not nice to kiss so upon this basis I shall continue.

Not returning to Hotham this season is giving me strange symptoms. I feel that it would be an obvious misstep to return, no to mention backwards in all of the ways of my heart and sense of worth, rehashing past experiences seems to leave me feeling unfulfilled, like a dry and crusty piece of roadside possum. Having to confront my most recent romantic disaster on a daily basis, not to mention several other minor snowmances is not an ideal move to improve my lifestyle. However this doesn’t mean that I am not tinged with a touch of regret and malaise at missing out on being in one of my favorite places, it feels like home in a lot of ways, if my home were in the pits of hell and I was constantly having acid thrown at my face. But home none the less. Fuck it, I will just have to come up in full blown punter mode in a whirlwind of debauchery and use my master key to steal the good spirits and hopefully assault Hugh on the dancefloor again.

In the mean time, here I am in Hobart, under the very vague guise of completing a Masters degree, but really just returning to hostel times for a few months to avoid the responsibility of life and the resultant failure of never quite achieving anything of worth. My blatant and at times overpowering misanthropy will need  be kept in check. I have no doubt that had I returned to Hotham several people would have suffered physical assault at my hands, the degree of stupidity and over arching entitlement fills me with a steaming hot rage that I just can’t control. Maybe I should work on that. Whilst I have to admit backpackers can also revolve around the lower echelons of the human race, at least some of them are hot, and I get free coffee. I also get to live in a room with a door, albeit no window. You win some, you lose some.

Is this blog now just my inner monologue? Is there a purpose to writing it? What even is life without memories? Who cares, I’ve typed out 500 words already so I may as well post it. Beware and brace yourselves for future installments that barely toe the line of intelligible prose and blatant hate speech. I can already tell it’s going to be a wild ride.

Over and out.

P.S See below pic for my new look and lifestyle. I think I’m really working it!

You are my little gentleman

Some of the sick new friends I made! John was classic.

Wowsers trousers. Paris is ranktastic. Those stereotypical images of the quintessential Paris such as baguette wielding, bike riding individuals are peppered with a heavy dose of the most rapey vibe I’ve encountered since I stopped raping people. Two days ago. An example of this is the moment I left the metro station to walk to my hostel, approximately 1 hour after landing in Charles De Gaulle, I realized I was being followed by a gentleman with a lopsided face and an appearance that simply screamed cracked out casual. I toyed with his ability to stalk me for a while as it was only a five minute walk to my hostel, by hiding behind a tree, then a car, thinking I’d shake him but he only waited for me to reappear before resuming our journey. Eventually I screamed the universally understood “fuck off” and ran into the hostel door, looking considerably unstable, and smelling like I had strapped two dead, aids riddled orangutans to my body and basked in the sun for a week (I had sweated alot in K.L and chosen the noble path of remaining in the same clothes for 48 hours). Combined with my usual slightly grotesque appearance, the fact that after I checked in and sat down to enjoy (steal) the free hostel breakfast I felt I was entitled too (but told I wasn’t meant too as I hadn’t stayed there that night), sitting outside by the canal, that a grossly obese, toothless man from the west indies asked me if I wanted him  to be my french boyfriend for five days did slightly shock me. It was a tempting offer let

The view from my room, where I watched many a drug deal go down and men dressed solely in doona capes chase the passerbys. Ah Paris

me tell you, considering he threw into the mix the added benefits of also teaching me to french kiss, make french love and visit many bakeries, that I regrettable chose to turn down. I can just feel this decision haunting me the rest of my life, but I just can’t commit to that kind of genuine affection. Mikael, as he was called, told me he was not a guest of the hostel however he came in most mornings to enjoy a durry on the riverbanks (e.g roofie backpackers) and that he had never met a lady as beautiful as me before. I think he may have been quite disabled. It was frustrating because I was longing to enjoy my cheese, mustard and jam baguette I had created but couldn’t as he kept making terribly suggestive comments about the potential love affair we could have while I was in Paris. Eventually he did leave, apparently to ‘make party’ doing something in a shady media themed environment (my first thought was he was a porn distributor) and left me all alone. Mikael, I am sorry our love could never be.

A short compilation of Mikael and my best times in the city of love. I’ll never forget you.

Gay Parie

Since coming back to Hobart after another stint away has filled me with malaise I am quickly back outta here, over the ditch and heading to Paris next week, where I have even less of a plan but maybe I’ll find a new pair of boots or something.

Entering the Shaft

Today I entered the shaft of the Cu Chi tunnels. My time in the shaft was short but eye opening. There were many others also experiencing the shaft with me, some did not enjoy their time in the shaft and I frequently heard cries of “oh god get me out of this shaft’. There are many shafts in Cu Chi for small Vietnamese persons, they simply slip on down. Large sweaty Americans had less pleasant times in the shafts and regret was pasted on their faces the moments they descended into shaft city.

My favorite place in Ho Chi Minh aside from the shaft has been Circle K. I love Circle K, Circle K, Circle K I want to be inside you all day. I am still looking for sweet beng beng that Bali had in abundance but even without this amazing  treat, Circle K is still a definite highlight. There is lots of street food here but one must be cautious and always recall the essential mantra of “street food gives you aids” and therefore only eat from Circle K. Tomorrow we depart this city in search of the elusive gibbon however I will hold my time here close to my heart, thank you Circle K.

I’m blaaaaaaaaaaack!

Howdy non existent readers! So after a year hiatus and some hectic times in Hobart I am about to jet set off on another sojourn over the seas and I am insisting to myself that I write this blog frequently. Brace yourselves for mind-blowing wit and insight into the human condition, politics, complex mathematical theory and non stop poor taste comments thinly veiled as humour.