I'm
in my room again. In here, just like always, brooding away and
chewing pens. Biting down hard. I'm sitting at a desk now – my desk
apparently – my parents chucked it in the moving van with all my
other stuff from Adelaide and said, “you love desks don't ya mate?
How about this one then?” I'd never seen the thing before in my
life, but Rolly, Dosh, and Jodger my mittens, this thing is LARGE. It's about two metres
long – yeah let's go with that – and a metre wide and while one
half is supported by the heavy-yet-flimsy wooden board that some more
adventurous types would term a 'leg', the other side is propped up by
one of my big speakers which is almost the same height as the
leg, (just a bit taller) and that height is made up on the leg's side
by a few bricks that I stole out of the back yard. I'm going to keep
those bricks when we move out, because I don't give a fuck what anyone says. I am a lone ranger. Revolution. etc. etc.
On
top of the mighty table is all the electrical equipment I own in the
world (take note, potential burglars) including my newly purchased
2TB external hard drive... last Monday I went on a bit of a spending
spree which was facilitated by the finalisation of my dealings with
former boss and professional fuckhead Nathan Walker... he owed me
five-hundred and fifty wing-wangs, and when those wing-wangs came, oh
how the money did fly. New skateboard – over by the wall. New kicks
– Puma Suedes. (nowhere other than the internet could I find any
Puma Clydes which SUCKS because the pair I bought about three and a
half years ago now are still the most amazing pair of shoes I have
ever owned) And the hard drive... it's quickly filling up with movies
now... let's see if we can't do some real damage to this internet
quota here lads – I'm not even sure if there's a limit?
To
my right is a letter from my grandma with a few of her short stories
on it, sent at my request, and also a letter from the first French
girl I ever kissed, back in the original envelope with the words
“keep your old love letters, throw away old bank statements”
scrawled vertically down the side... I know I said it in the last
one, but I'll say it again now, you have to hold on. Hold on. Hold
on... A reading list hangs next to it with my hopeful conquests of
the next six months including some Stewart Lee, Charles Bukowski,
Mark Twain, Kafka, and a self-help book that Rich has recommended
called 'Why People Fail'... Because failing, that's not what you want
is it? (rhetorical question; easy one there, nothing too strenuous) An
angry note to myself – “ONLY ON SUNDAY” – sits right in front of
me, glaring down from the wall above my laptop screen. Burning a hole
in my retina, it will remain there until I learn... what I need to
learn, is for only me to know. I feel lame even saying that it's
there without being prepared to come clean about why yet... but I
guess that's just part of the process... it will come, once I've
learnt. As a now completely insane person once said to me in once of his last
glimpses of brilliance before he slipped off the edge and fell down
into the lonely recesses of his own mind, “he needs to learn”. He
was right... I really do.
To
my right, and behind me, each item of furniture is slowly settling
into place; a millimetre here, a creaking floorboard there, each leg
or stand or corner slowly creating a groove in the wooden floor, and
making sure that whenever it is all removed – hopefully not for a
long time yet – the hardwood will show up lighter in the places it
once sat. I love my furniture, emblazoned as it is with bright,
meaningless stickers from a long-forgotten childhood. I don't
remember putting any of them there, but I know it was me... it's
basically all I used to do. There's some there from the Navy, from
ABC Radio, from McDonalds, from random lollies and showbags from the
Adelaide Show, National Geographic, caricatures of Darren Lehman
and Adam Gilchrist of the Australian Cricket Team in the mid to late
nineties, and my favourite, 'My Dog is Registered Because I Care <3'. (Note: I do not, nor have I ever, owned a dog – that's why it's funny, yeah?) If I were over-sentimental, I would tell you that each one of these
stickers tells a story of a fond time that I can treasure in the back
of my heart. I'd say something soft like "they make me smile, breathe, sigh, and do happy things
with my hair..." and trail off with an ellipsis... ew, gross. That would be complete bullshit, they're just stickers,
and they bear no meaning other than that they are there now, and I'm
pretty sure they look fucking dope... Giddy Goanna; the guy is a
straight up badass.
My
bed behind me has remained empty but for my lonely, increasingly
hairy body for the last few weeks it has been here, and I know a
pretty girl who will be very happy to read that should she chance
upon this particular entry... but I don't think I'll tell her about it
directly. Leave small presents here and there, that's the best way I
think. Little treats, little surprises, scattered about the world for
those inquisitive enough to find them. This is her present, all the
rest of you will have to wait for yours.
Strewn
around the floor I've still got clothes... still, god damn it – even
with drawers and cupboards my clothes end up catching bread-crumbs on
the floor... holy fuck yesterday I ate some cereal with ants in it.
Not a funny story there, just the truth, which I hope you can all
appreciate and take something away from. It happened because Desh –
one half of the famed BroDesh collective, so named by me and me
alone, that is comprised of my two housemates – was drunk and
whatever else on Saturday morning, and smashed a whole bunch of shit
up in the kitchen. My cereal was on the floor when I came home and I
lazily didn't pick it up; instead I just stood laughing in eye-rolling disbelief at the scene before me, and then went to bed. Later on when
I went to have a bowl of cereal yesterday, I poured the fruity stuff
onto my Weetbix and ants came out with it... not heaps of ants, but
enough to be worried about you know? Like maybe five per spoonful. So I tried to
wash them out with water first, and then sieve the cereal... but that
was an idea born of desperation which proved as utterly futile at the time as it
looks right now in writing. In the end, I resigned to eating the ants with milk
and cereal together – just as god intended – and as my stomach
filled with acetic acid, I knew I would be retelling this with what
really is an unhealthy lack of embarrassment or restraint, very, very
soon.
The
plan for the future you ask? Well first I'm going to the toilet, and
then I'm gonna grab some incense and light that shit up next to my
half-open window, and put on the kettle for another cup of tea.
That's about as far as I've thought it through to be honest – my days of
late are spent between silent meditation and furious passion over one
or another of life's meaningless details... and it's so perfect it
makes me want to take my head and smash it into a wall. That doesn't
make sense does it? Of course not, what ever does.
Peace,
Taco.
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