The beach

Inspired by the water retaining customs of the Kalahari bushmen, a share house comprised of only boys decided to conserve bodily fluids by abstaining from wanking during the harsh Australian Summer. Along with water retention, they sought the sharp mental alertness known well by great hunters of the desert. People walking by commented on the atmosphere of imminent danger radiating from the house. Tall weeds established themselves in the front yard and the blinds were constantly drawn. Neighbors never saw the boys anymore and only heard strange calls during the night indicating that the residence remained inhabited. Most curiously, as summer progressed they forgot language, developing a unique form of telepathy; only communicating verbally through clicks and grunting noises akin to their Kalahari muses. Long gone were memories of life before the custom as they descended completely into their own world.

Too hot to be an extra

 I was watching a crime show on the TV today. I knew that one of the characters was going to be important to the plot because she was too hot to be an extra. If I was one of those young fellas with funny instagram names my name could be "too hot to be an extra" or something like that. I don't understand most people these days but I do know one thing, that lady was god damn beautiful.  

No slaves no masters

 The other night when I was in the supermarket car park I saw a middle aged man sitting on a fold out seat next to his ute. He was perched up having a cigarette and a beer by himself in an empty parking lot. I thought about walking up to him and asking him what was happening but I didn't. I couldn't tell if he was celebrating or had given up on the earth and wanted no part in it. That guy rules.  

Changes

Today I found out that Tupac Shakur was a theatre kid when he was young. I’ve never been massively into him but still, this new information upset me. Was he pretending to be a thug the whole time? If so then I’m glad he’s dead.

Larry Bird

Today after boxing I watched a documentary in the bath about the NBA player Larry Bird. Larry grew up poor in French Lick Indiana and was known as "the hick from French Lick". He had a shit haircut and was relatively unathletic for a basketball player, but had great determination and basketball IQ. Larry went to college but dropped out after his first year, returning to French Lick to become a garbage man. Home life was tough and his father who was addicted to alcohol committed suicide following a divorce. 

This motivated Larry to return to basketball and he ended up becoming one of the greatest NBA players of all time, winning the MVP three years in a row. Larry was a clutch player know for his ability to change the flow of games even when he didn't have the ball and was also considered one of the best trash talkers in NBA history. He drank too much and occasionally got into bar fights. Most players regarded him as their toughest opponent even when compared to Michael Jordan. In the 80's he was the spokesperson for the Mc Chicken. A lot of people wish they could try an ecstasy pill from the 90's but I would like to try a Mc Chicken from the 80's, I reckon it would be peak.  

"CHLOE! GET IN THE HOUSE!"

On a winters night as I make myself dinner I suddenly remember that my washing is still on the clothesline. The air is sharp and I'm tired from the day but I muster up the energy to walk into the backyard. The grass is wet from dew, it seeps through my socks and bites the end of my toes with a cold sting. I stare up at the moon and am struck with a deep melancholy for no particular reason. As I stand in a calm despair I hear a sound that lifts me from the fog. 

"CHLOE! GET IN THE HOUSE!"

My neighbor is once again yelling at his daughter Chloe. This has become a ritual, usually welcomed by the pulse of his reversing Tesla. The tone in his voice tells me everything I need to know. It is the cry of a man with nothing to lose. The silent rage of someone confined to an invisible cell. He's not really yelling at Chloe, but instead he yells at the life he has lost. Chloe as she stands before him functions as an archetype of lost youth. My neighbor screams in fear at this material omen of which he is creator. Suddenly doing my washing doesn't seem so bad. 

Modern day philosophers

Have I gone too far this time? Have I opened up Pandora's box? Unleashing upon myself a mental odyssey, a pursuit of thought without restrictions, I am Alice through the looking glass. Every moment from my life has become infected with the frame work of blogging. Real life has become a projection of the virtual as I wake up in cold sweats questioning whether or not I exist on the surface of a bad dream or if I am in fact truly awake. Am I able to have authentic experiences anymore or am I living purely for the purpose of satisfying the blog's insatiable hunger? Too far have I traveled up this river Congo only to find that the enemy I was searching for was me all along. 

Mary-Jane

I just drove five hours straight, but even in my tired state the blog calls to me.

I arrive at my grandma’s place at 11pm and head straight to the pantry seeking out a two litre plastic bottle of tropical punch. I pour a tall glass mixed with cold water from the fridge and taste the comfort of a childhood I should have had. My grandma keeps her cold water in an old plastic cordial bottle, she cares not for the bpa free trends of the city. 

I have a shower and wash down my banquet of anti-depressants with ice cold punch. My mind wanders to thoughts of Mary-Jane Rottencrotch and that one fateful summer night atop the haystack.

Purgatory

In the car at the drive through of Doncaster KFC. We are in the purgatory between windows. My girlfriend is on her phone. Without saying a word I turn to her making a gun sign with my hand, I place it on the side of her temple and mimic pulling the trigger. We take our orders from the next window and eat our meals in silence. 

Trap music

I’m daydreaming in the library about the possibility of this blog. Maybe one day my reach will be so large that the CIA will try to compromise me in a honey trap operation. The sad truth is that the idea appeals to me. Imagine missing the touch of a woman so much that a honey trap sounds like music to your ears.

I’m still here

I never betrayed you, I never snitched on you. You tried to stop me speaking my truth. I see the vultures circling but I'm still here.

Ops

While I was cycling home from work my mind wandered to Bianca Thompson from year three biology class. Bianca told me that I wouldn’t amount to anything in life. Bianca got knocked up when she was 17 and now I’m a general manager. Look at me now, I whisper to myself. I pop a mono and Bianca is still a mole.