I just realised... the walls of my room probably bear a striking resemblance to my brain.

I Don't Think We'll Get The Truth

From some kids with stickers on their boots.

The Valley: Dig Vigilante

Ghetto Balj CBD at the Lionel Apartments.

(Clancy's old place)

Finally having a scanner in my little ghetto cesspit is fairly legit. All those photos taken on Rosie's lomo cameras... It's been a fun experiment.

Rose is moving next door today, into this little underneath part of the house: Ashtray III.

So there will be space in my room and I'll start painting again I guess.

Can't think of anything better to do, really.

Apart from drink... and that isn't always a constructive occupation.

Tell me: If you're so fucking smart, what would you do?

When it rains, it certainly fucking pours.

I am the son, I am the heir...
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar.
The Smiths

The chance I had I kinda blew...

DAMAGE CONTROL: All Damage and No Control

Another halt in the conversation--this is not at all how it was supposed to play out--and neither of us knows what the proper conduct is. What do you say after the bomb gets dropped and nothing happens? You pull the trigger and there's just a click? There's an anti-climactic shockwave moving soundlessly and destructively across the line, but the only thing left to do is ignore it. I'm not giving an inch to what I feel about this, because by this point, she doesn't even deserve my rage.
From there, the conversation is eerily normal, although there is another presence with us now, like we are sitting at a bar drinking beer and talking while a cadaver is propped up between us, beer wedged in hand and a cigarette burning slowly, unsmoked, between two lifeless fingers. I speak through my shock with calm aplomb, wind up the conversation and get the fuck out.
Sweet, bleeding jesus.
I lay back on my bed, interstate, and don't cry. I just lay there, searching out in the nerve endings of my limbs to familiarize myself with that awful creeping cold. It makes me nervous; like I am anticipating the onset of a particularly bad fever, so I decide not to bask in it for too long lest I find out what it being there really means. I go into our crack-house kitchen with the ruptured lino, make another coffee and sit in the back lattice smoking a cigarette and drinking.
And all this before lunch.
I'm gone for twelve fucking hours and that's all it takes.
I'm being far too furious with my cigarette, and probably my coffee too, but I cling to the motions desperately, in absence of knowledge of what the fuck else I'm supposed to do.

Miss You Less, See You More.

1.7L of goodness.

We went and saw Mercy Arms play last night at Empire, which was pretty... kinda... sorta... OK. I hate those Lick-it parties they have in there though; apart from the bands it's such a scenester wank-fest and the worst part of all is that no one in this city is actually cool.

My definition of cool of course being an entriely contradictory and self-sabotaging concept. That being: as soon as you try and be whatever is considered cool, you immediately expose yourself as a fuckwit found desperately wanting.

But anyway.

The band was good.

And as it turned out, Rose went to school with the bass player.

Don't be a...

While on the subject of dumbcunts, they were en masse in the mall last night. I value the early hours of the morning, sitting in the mall, smoking and assessing the increasingly heinous crew whose situations and wardrbe malfunctions grow in direct proportion to the rising sun. It's totally fucked that the very people I'm watching with derision feel the need to get sleazy.

No, fluro guy, no fucking way.

I walked past a guy last night on the way up to the club and he attempted to smack me on the ass. He completely missed and hit me in the lower back and it really fucking hurt. It seriously annoys me that guys like that assume they have a right to do that kind of stuff; as if, as soon as I leave the house I become public property.

Like I said, dumbcunts.

This was in the laneway behind the Zoo, from when we sat out there and drank Jack and listened to Juliette and the Licks play a set in there. Back in the days when we were poor and couldn't afford to go see shows.

Oh well, those good old days have completely fucked off... both Rose and I have a job, and we are taking our money to Sebastian Bach and the Hell City Glamours tonight!

Hopefully catch up with Mo Mayhem and the other members of Hell City... It's going to be fun fun fun.

Doin' stuff, it's good.


People have jobs now. Things are not going to be as fun. Even I have a job, even if it's only for one hour a day and only for this week. It's still commitment.


Anyway, the only thing worse than 3am messages is 5am phonecalls. That happened to me yesterday and I didn't like it.



Such happy drunks. I'm going to work now.


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