Thirty-Three on the Third (Day... of being here... in Melbourne... ugh forget it)

Over the last two days I have handed out thirty-three resumes to thirty-three different hospitality venues in the inner streets of this city. Now that I say it back to myself, it doesn't seem like that many, but the soles of my feet and tiredness in my body tell me that yes, actually, thirty-three resumes is quite a few to have handed out in two days, thank you very much... what's for dinner?

After cruising past Coles and sussing out a 'ham and chicken flavoured knob', (fritz) some plasticy cheese, cheap bread and a bottle of sweet chilli sauce, I sat in a sheltered alcove on Brunswick St and made sandwiches while the rain came down on my uncovered feet. Using a bread tag as a knife was brain-wave #1 for the afternoon, and after two healthy helpings of fuck-yes food and a call to my man Philly P. back home I hit the pavement for a few hours of resume dropping. This afternoon felt good, and after the rain cleared up I managed to speak to a fair few interested parties in various bars and clubs. Fingers crossed for the weekend... god DAMN it I have a powerful hankering for a nice, cafe meal.

The first thing I'm going to do when I get my first pay cheque from whatever job I end up getting (positivity, positivity, COME ON!) is going to be spent in the most systematic and planned way conceivable. First, I will go to a cafe, selected after a meandering walk around the busy afternoon streets and chosen for its all day breakfast and extensive wine list. I will dine greedily and drink continuously, before leaving satisfied to continue my aimless wandering around the streets. I will buy three or four items of clothing, each as flamboyant and unnecessary as possible, and on my walk back to the hostel as the sun begins to set behind the clouds which will surely be covering the sky, I will throw the remaining resumes from my starting sixty into a dumpster, and set fire to them. Upon my triumphant return to the hostel I will crack open a sack of goon and sit in the kitchen drinking with whoever will join me, and from there a jubilant night of idiocy will ensue. Hurt people. Fight furniture. Headbutt everything.

The next morning I will wake up, hopefully with around $20 left, and I will walk to the closest souvenir shop and buy a wallet. In it I will keep inspirational notes, hand written in pen, and paltry amounts of money.

I'm really excited to have a job again actually. Not some bullshit sales job or desk-jockey crap, but a real job behind a bar where I can meet people and have a laugh. I'm sure this disgusting 'can-do' attitude will dissipate fairly soon after I start, but for now it's all thumbs up, thankyous and happy smiles.

Last night I also managed to get in some Spanish practice with couple of Argentinians from the hostel, and also got my first stand up spot in Melbourne at Station 59 on Church street. Not that these things really bear that much mentioning in the grand scheme of things but it helps to keep track of developments as they... uuuhh... develop. I missed the free food van again tonight, this time by the narrowest of narrow margins, so it looks like it's pasta with sweet chilli sauce, melted cheese and some slices of ham+chicken flavoured knob for dinner tonight. As a bunch of French people speak in their low, creamy tongue to my right I am painfully aware of how much they probably detest me and my disgusting attempts at cuisine, but I am sure that they are slightly jealous as well. Jealous of my crafty ability to live from scraps and scrapings, collected from the bottom of each day's filthy barrel. Bon apetit friends.

Peace, Taco.