It stings like a wave of reason when your content being irrational.
When I feel like shit it runs through every extremity. It soakes into my bones, melts into my stomach and penetrates every one of my desires.
Although Im not quite sure I desire anything. I certainly have no desire to find my medication. I didnt take my tablet today and yes I can feel it. I know its in my closet somewhere. It must be. I dont want it. I hate that missing one single dose makes such a massive difference to how I feel. Its rather disempowering to say the least. Who needs God; who needs anything, ever when your life is at the mercy of a single pill. As if everything you need to be human doesnt matter cause if have that but not your pill your rendered totally fucked up anyway. It could be illicit drugs or could be ZOLOFT. We love pills.
Its a self -fulfilling prophecy isnt it - that Science thinks it can map our entire humanity. I guess it follows that if there is no empirical way of measuring our souls then they simply must not exist. Well Im convinced after today. Nobody has a soul if they are addicted to pills. The essence of your being becomes happy/sad, pleasure/unpleasure, your essence becomes the funtions of your neurotransmitters. My neurotransmitters grew they like a spastic fucking ghost-child when I started being scared to go to school everyday. Im not talking about being scared to die. Just being scared of being humiliated day in day out. I'd try to leave as late as possible knowing that the line out of Year 8s outside their classroom would yell "faggot" and "poofter" the second I made it onto the schoolyard. Why didn't I fucking well go up to them and tell to shit the fuck up. Take a pill and dont worry about that shit. Im too worried about my soul when I should have been more concerned with more my balls were at that pojnt in tim. I was a cock-head. I hate myself when Im weak. I dont like the sickly depression that fills me up and rolls me out until Im limp and flat and useless all over the couch. I dont like the anxiety that spreads along my bed and curdles and vomits into the empty space in my mobile phone inbox.
Let's call it MENTAL GASTRO - just for fun. Its important to have fun and be entertaining, even when you want to die. Im positive I'll still be seeking approval as Im taking my last gasps. Still wondering if my hair looks ok, about my undiscovered talents, if I can say something sufficiently witty and ironic. Im positive that if I couldnt think of anything funny to say, Id be happy to let life slide.
MENTAL GASTRO - except that I can only vomiy up irrational thoughts and misidentified needs I never would have guessed that I had. Im not sure if you need to cut yourself. That said Im not biologist, Im not David Attenborough so how the fuck would I no. Maybe, he would know what depression would look like if you could shit it out.
My guess is slimy, brown with a tinge of furious red. Its half-mouldy. Infected with bacteria from years past. Its half-rotted and you can see traces of your brain and your heart and life you wish you had. The person you wish you were.
Or perhaps it would be like a stupid, teenage boy with a narcissistic personality disorder, good hair and a small dick.
My piece of shit depression would never return my calls either. When I sit it would leave me starry-eyed as it sat told me about me about the worlds most uninteresting shit.
Too much TV means we think things are their surfaces. Its all visual. If it looks good it must be good. I blame Home and Away, I blame my Dad, I blame you.
And then suddenly you realise that the feeling of sickness becomes so familiar you dont want it to go. Its like it protects me from the awful truth. Cause, yknow, something tells me the world isnt this type of shit that I think it is. I do know it is some kind of shit, like as in ordinary and boring and average and forgettable. Maybe like some people see me. Something tells me that in some way one human doesnt really matter all that much to the next. Thats harsh. It is comfortable and poetic tho isnt it, to cool and depressed and think everything is horrible???
Im thinking of not taking my Zoloft for a week or two to see what happens. I know from today that Im dependant on it from now on. I feel a little twinge of excitements when I think about going back into the depths of despair when things become surreal and magnificently melodramatic. Its an adventure. You kind of feel alive. Like drug addicts say when they are coming down off drugs "its shit, but its better than reality". Oh yeah and dont yell at me and dont tell me what to do and give me lee-way cause im ill motherfuckers.
Not to mention all the things Ive failed at, all the people more talented than me, all the failed relationships - its all because Im sick. Ha ha ha. Its not because Im me. If you follow this line of thinking to the end suddenly your ACTUAL POTENTIAL seems limitless.
If only I wasnt a depressive I could achieve anything, right???
Ha ha ha ha.
Delusions are better than realising your just a person as plain and insignificant as the next.
Unless, of course your the guy im messaging in which case you must be fucking amazing. You must be the boy I never was and the boy I never had. How can be so wonderful and tell me the same and ignore my messages for the next week???
Is it because Im a person, as plain and insignificant as the next??
Perhaps Im as plain and unsatisfying as that shit fucking Sunblest White Bread my arsehole Dad buys. I blame his bad choices in bread for my hypoglycemia.
Im writing generally and Im thinking in particuluars. I know who Im talking about. Ive had his number again for nearly week. I deleted for a reason and yet you will always find a way of getting THAT number again. Something keeps pulling me back.
The pain and hurt I think Im feeling now for no reason gets morphed entirely into a need to be loved by some young think. Today, I got close to calling him. I dont think his ever answered one of my calls. I picked up the phone to call him again. My parents pulled in the drive away. I was breathed a sigh of relief. They had spared me from heartbreak for today. Still, I want to grab him and smother him and tell him I love him. Oh and then put him on my knee and fuck him senseless.
He's a dumb little shit who I barely even know and what I do know I cant even stand. Get the fuck over it.
*
I found a prescription on the floor. I was hoping it would be a Zoloft prescription. It was for Viagra. I can blame the drugs, the truth is Ive always had erection problems. The prescription reads "take one tablet when directed by the Doctor". The thought of some slimey Doctor telling me how to have sex doesnt help my cause. Golly gosh Science can even give you stiffies now. One pill, another pill, instant happy. Limp Dick. Lets feel human together. You limp dick shit my didnt u tell those people at school to fuck off and stop calling you a faggot or you would cut their fucking throats. Would I do that now? Or would I save that threat for the next hairdresser queen who refuses my calls???
*
Morning after the depression I find my tablets.
This morning I weighed myself Ive been as high as 78 and as low as 59 just in the past 18 months.
Today the scales read 66.6 Kilos.
The mark of the beast. Lol.
Beast, hey? What is an opposite to soul. The type of creatures that like to eat and love and kill and sometimes, it would, to kill ourselves.
Just as God and nature intended???
Just as I cant possibly breed??
The 66.6 moment reminded me instantly of a dream I had about a month or so ago. I was sleeping on heroin. Apparently, it gives u nightmares. I dreamt that I was outside my parents house, nobody was home and it was pitch-black night. It was as if some terrible fate was hiding in the bushes for me, waiting for its moment to pounce.
A lecturer from my Uni came up to me. She was freaky, with her little reptilian face and designer-dyed multi-coloured hair....she whispered.
"Do you remember the night the devil was here"
She stared at me, I wanted to cry.
I woke-up with the feeling of a primal fear running through my veins. I told my friend about the dream. I sat there and thought about that dark, winter night that I sat in the car outside my parents house with a hose running from the exhaust pipe to the car window. Id got out a tee-towel to stick in the window as well. I sat there for 20 minutes egging myself to turn the engine on. I never did. Instead I went inside, smoked a bong and cut myself while staring at the mirror.
Maybe suicide is all part of the side of ourselves that the simple minded can only call "the devil". Maybe it is evil.
It is our dark side - where violence, hatred and death seem terrible, necessary and strangely illuminating all at the same time.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
On sunday I organised to meeta guy named Grant. We met on the train from Brisbane to Bundaberg.
He is short, stocky, walks like a footballer and wears thick glasses. He's ginger and balding.
Someone I'd maybe wank about fucking someone else, not someone I'd ever actually sleep with
I'm not the sort of person to make friends on trains. I'd recognised Grant from the gay scene in Melbourne. The first time I saw Grant he was with Jacob. He stuck in my mind because I wondered if Jacob hung out with him to get free drugs. Im not sure why I thought that.
I saw hi to him on the train and later we got talking. He was sports-mad and once studied Law at Griffith University. Like me he was escaping the excesses of nightclub life in Melbourne to live at his parents house just outside of bundaberg. He was down-to-earth, masculine, even a slightly dorky. He talked a lot. I liked him.
We exchanged numbers and agreed to meet again.
When we finally met I decided to spend the day shopping before hand. I went to the suprisingly up-to-date shopping mall 'Hinkler Place' where I wondered around bookshops before getting a copy of the Monthly and sitting down in the food court.
I was in my shorts and wife-beater singlet..I was going to the gym that afternoon as well...of course it didn't matter that I looked like a dork, correct? Incorrect.
Two cute gay teen boys walked into the music store next to me.
One was really hot. Dark, small, muscles. Pretty.
Christ look at me. I can never escape gorgeous boys and panic attacks.
I walked over to the store and pretended to be looking at CDs while perving at them. They didnt notice me. That was actually a good thing. cause I realised i'd been 'looking' at the country music section.
My stomach filled with sick, I sat back down and watched them from a distance. I got semi-hard. My dick was reminding me why I was always willing to skip work if a teenage boy was lying next to me in bed.
I felt embarrased as well. I was kind of hoping they wouldnt see me. It reminded of me of wandering around shopping centres when I was that age. Alone, looking freaky with strange haircuts and bright yellow raver gear. Breaking out in a new cystic pimple with every fit of anxiety. If I saw another gay guy or even a good looking metro guy I'd fucking lose it. I could feel myself go red everytime. I gave them a thought bubble "look at that ugly faggot" when they met eyes with me.
I'd run in the toilets. Stare in the mirror. Wandering what it was about me that was so unattractive. I didnt mind being gay, being ugly on the other hand that was hard to deal with.
It reminded me of the sting I got when I first met gay men. They were hip, inner-city types. They took cool drugs, hooked and hang out with vicious drag queens. They treated gayness as membership to an exclusive group. A tall queeny skinny boy with a bad attitude and a penchant for fucking celebrities slept with me and then told me not to fall in love with him. He left me a shaking, dribbling, self-harming mess and scared me away from being around gay men and the gay scene for three years. When I did go back I walked up the door of gay nightclubs maybe a dozen times before I finally made my in and when I did I was relieved to find out not all gay men where good looking or hip.
Later than night I met with Grant. He had his glasses off. He was badly fucking cross-eyed or had a lazy eye, is that same thing??? It was a little disturbing. I met his grandparents. We walked to his ex-boyfriends house. On the way we talked drug abuse. He'd already told me on the phone he had been in the 12 step program. He said he could not get past STEP 5, dealing with difficult emotions. He went into more depth this time. He told he used to smoke $300 worth of ICE a day during a bad patch this year and he said he financed it all by dealing the shit. He said he felt bad that he fucked up a lot of peoples heads. It turned out he was the wholesaler to many of the hip young queens who sell drugs on the gay scene. We discussed all the people we coincidentally both knew. It felt weird crossing the bridge over gum trees and the Bundaberg river talking about fucked-up gay boys from Melbourne. I wondered how much of what he told me was true, about the drug abuse and drug taking.
I admitted to using heroin and needles. He went into lecturer mode. His comments about it being my "emotional blankie" meant fuck-all to me, but it was sweet that he cared. I asked him about the scare on his arm, it looked like a burn in the shape of a massive eye.
"I got it from injecting drugs"
"Your joking"
"No I'm not. I was shooting up meth and I fucked up"
I wondered if he'd injected when his lazy eye was having a particuluarly slack day.
"I hit an arterey instead of a vein. I got an absys."
I was surprised he didnt loose his arm. It was ugly and on-display. It was a foul scab on the former school football captain and young Queenslander of the year nominee.
"What do you tell people when they ask you about it"
"Just that I had absys" he says.
I couldn't decide whether Grant was a massive fucking hedonist or someone who would do anything to fit in with pretentious city queens or a self-loather with a distaste for waking reality. But either way the conversation loosened us up, suddenly we had that unspoken closeness that in my life I only get so quickly with other drug users.
When got to the house we drank UDL's and listened to Ministry of Sound. His ex was ginger like Grant. I have never felt so un-ginger in my life. It was a good feeling.
His ex's Mum drank with us and asked Grant to get her pot later in the week. He was looked thrilled to be of some use to her. She told me I looked young for my age and that "I had great manners". I sat next to her and stared into her pale, life-weary face. She wore slim reading glasses and wore no make-up. She told me about her life with her croc-hunter Dad. They would go out in the black of night on a small boat and shoot huge crocs, selling their skins. She said she saw many Crocododiles snatch Kangaroos and Wallabies from the sit of the river.
"It takes hours for a Crocodile to kill them. Its terrible. There is something I could never cope with seeing these horrible creatures destroy a beautiful innocent life"
"Its nature, isnt it?" I argued.
"You should always try and intervene when you see cruel things. Some animals are just nasty critters. I shoot Butcher Birds if I see them. We once had a lovely pet bird and one snipped off its head. They murder for the sake of murdering. They are evil" she said.
I remembered the time I saw two Butcher Birds tormenting a small possum in a tree.
My friend said that we should throw rocks.
'Its nature, yeah. Let them sort it" I said.
My Mum came to collect me and I invited her in. She picked Grant for the Kentucky fried drug pig he is. Soon the conversation turned to the psychology of use.
Both of them made cocks of themselves. Mum turned into Nancy Reagan saying drug abuse was simply a matter of self-control. Grant said he tooks because society did not completely accept his sexuality. I could see his lazy eye pulling its way out of Mum's eye-line as the discussion became heated.
Mum was really talking in puns about her attitude to my drug abuse. I looked at her pretty eyes and pock-holed cheeks - "you want to think my drug abuse is all about a weakness in my character, that it couldn't possibly be anything to do with they way you brought me up".
She might be right, but the BRAIN in me tells me otherwise.
Go fuck yourself Nancy.
On the way home Mum told me the guy's Mum and said she lost her husband when she was pregnant with him. She also lost her three-month old baby in a car accident when fleeing her violent husband. "I killed that baby" she said.
I thought back to her withered face. Her black and white convictions about interfering with nature and the existence of evil. I thought about how much she seemed to love her gay son. She was not a drug addict and this revelation made me think of Grant as a a sad sorry case for suggesting his drug abuse was from a lack of self-esteem.
"They were all nice tho" Mum said.
"Yeah I like them a lot too".
"Grants ex-boyfriend says he's really attracted to you"
"Why do so many guys get infatuated with me?"
"Its not a bad thing, love it while it lasts"
I told her I wouldn't be happy until I was living in Sydney dating Anthony Callea.
She laughed
I went to bed merrily drunk.
The next morning I got up, tired, dopey and satisfied.
It was cold. The drop in temperature meant I finally got a decent nights sleep.
I looked out the windom. There was mist on the surrounding hills. The drizzle feel calmy and put a dreamy little haze on everything. I felt insulated from the searing sun, I felt insulated from the world out there. I felt safe.
I smelt the wet eucalypt and watched Christmas miovies on TV. I drank Miso Soup. I didn't speak a word to Nancy Reagan.
I was happy.
He is short, stocky, walks like a footballer and wears thick glasses. He's ginger and balding.
Someone I'd maybe wank about fucking someone else, not someone I'd ever actually sleep with
I'm not the sort of person to make friends on trains. I'd recognised Grant from the gay scene in Melbourne. The first time I saw Grant he was with Jacob. He stuck in my mind because I wondered if Jacob hung out with him to get free drugs. Im not sure why I thought that.
I saw hi to him on the train and later we got talking. He was sports-mad and once studied Law at Griffith University. Like me he was escaping the excesses of nightclub life in Melbourne to live at his parents house just outside of bundaberg. He was down-to-earth, masculine, even a slightly dorky. He talked a lot. I liked him.
We exchanged numbers and agreed to meet again.
When we finally met I decided to spend the day shopping before hand. I went to the suprisingly up-to-date shopping mall 'Hinkler Place' where I wondered around bookshops before getting a copy of the Monthly and sitting down in the food court.
I was in my shorts and wife-beater singlet..I was going to the gym that afternoon as well...of course it didn't matter that I looked like a dork, correct? Incorrect.
Two cute gay teen boys walked into the music store next to me.
One was really hot. Dark, small, muscles. Pretty.
Christ look at me. I can never escape gorgeous boys and panic attacks.
I walked over to the store and pretended to be looking at CDs while perving at them. They didnt notice me. That was actually a good thing. cause I realised i'd been 'looking' at the country music section.
My stomach filled with sick, I sat back down and watched them from a distance. I got semi-hard. My dick was reminding me why I was always willing to skip work if a teenage boy was lying next to me in bed.
I felt embarrased as well. I was kind of hoping they wouldnt see me. It reminded of me of wandering around shopping centres when I was that age. Alone, looking freaky with strange haircuts and bright yellow raver gear. Breaking out in a new cystic pimple with every fit of anxiety. If I saw another gay guy or even a good looking metro guy I'd fucking lose it. I could feel myself go red everytime. I gave them a thought bubble "look at that ugly faggot" when they met eyes with me.
I'd run in the toilets. Stare in the mirror. Wandering what it was about me that was so unattractive. I didnt mind being gay, being ugly on the other hand that was hard to deal with.
It reminded me of the sting I got when I first met gay men. They were hip, inner-city types. They took cool drugs, hooked and hang out with vicious drag queens. They treated gayness as membership to an exclusive group. A tall queeny skinny boy with a bad attitude and a penchant for fucking celebrities slept with me and then told me not to fall in love with him. He left me a shaking, dribbling, self-harming mess and scared me away from being around gay men and the gay scene for three years. When I did go back I walked up the door of gay nightclubs maybe a dozen times before I finally made my in and when I did I was relieved to find out not all gay men where good looking or hip.
Later than night I met with Grant. He had his glasses off. He was badly fucking cross-eyed or had a lazy eye, is that same thing??? It was a little disturbing. I met his grandparents. We walked to his ex-boyfriends house. On the way we talked drug abuse. He'd already told me on the phone he had been in the 12 step program. He said he could not get past STEP 5, dealing with difficult emotions. He went into more depth this time. He told he used to smoke $300 worth of ICE a day during a bad patch this year and he said he financed it all by dealing the shit. He said he felt bad that he fucked up a lot of peoples heads. It turned out he was the wholesaler to many of the hip young queens who sell drugs on the gay scene. We discussed all the people we coincidentally both knew. It felt weird crossing the bridge over gum trees and the Bundaberg river talking about fucked-up gay boys from Melbourne. I wondered how much of what he told me was true, about the drug abuse and drug taking.
I admitted to using heroin and needles. He went into lecturer mode. His comments about it being my "emotional blankie" meant fuck-all to me, but it was sweet that he cared. I asked him about the scare on his arm, it looked like a burn in the shape of a massive eye.
"I got it from injecting drugs"
"Your joking"
"No I'm not. I was shooting up meth and I fucked up"
I wondered if he'd injected when his lazy eye was having a particuluarly slack day.
"I hit an arterey instead of a vein. I got an absys."
I was surprised he didnt loose his arm. It was ugly and on-display. It was a foul scab on the former school football captain and young Queenslander of the year nominee.
"What do you tell people when they ask you about it"
"Just that I had absys" he says.
I couldn't decide whether Grant was a massive fucking hedonist or someone who would do anything to fit in with pretentious city queens or a self-loather with a distaste for waking reality. But either way the conversation loosened us up, suddenly we had that unspoken closeness that in my life I only get so quickly with other drug users.
When got to the house we drank UDL's and listened to Ministry of Sound. His ex was ginger like Grant. I have never felt so un-ginger in my life. It was a good feeling.
His ex's Mum drank with us and asked Grant to get her pot later in the week. He was looked thrilled to be of some use to her. She told me I looked young for my age and that "I had great manners". I sat next to her and stared into her pale, life-weary face. She wore slim reading glasses and wore no make-up. She told me about her life with her croc-hunter Dad. They would go out in the black of night on a small boat and shoot huge crocs, selling their skins. She said she saw many Crocododiles snatch Kangaroos and Wallabies from the sit of the river.
"It takes hours for a Crocodile to kill them. Its terrible. There is something I could never cope with seeing these horrible creatures destroy a beautiful innocent life"
"Its nature, isnt it?" I argued.
"You should always try and intervene when you see cruel things. Some animals are just nasty critters. I shoot Butcher Birds if I see them. We once had a lovely pet bird and one snipped off its head. They murder for the sake of murdering. They are evil" she said.
I remembered the time I saw two Butcher Birds tormenting a small possum in a tree.
My friend said that we should throw rocks.
'Its nature, yeah. Let them sort it" I said.
My Mum came to collect me and I invited her in. She picked Grant for the Kentucky fried drug pig he is. Soon the conversation turned to the psychology of use.
Both of them made cocks of themselves. Mum turned into Nancy Reagan saying drug abuse was simply a matter of self-control. Grant said he tooks because society did not completely accept his sexuality. I could see his lazy eye pulling its way out of Mum's eye-line as the discussion became heated.
Mum was really talking in puns about her attitude to my drug abuse. I looked at her pretty eyes and pock-holed cheeks - "you want to think my drug abuse is all about a weakness in my character, that it couldn't possibly be anything to do with they way you brought me up".
She might be right, but the BRAIN in me tells me otherwise.
Go fuck yourself Nancy.
On the way home Mum told me the guy's Mum and said she lost her husband when she was pregnant with him. She also lost her three-month old baby in a car accident when fleeing her violent husband. "I killed that baby" she said.
I thought back to her withered face. Her black and white convictions about interfering with nature and the existence of evil. I thought about how much she seemed to love her gay son. She was not a drug addict and this revelation made me think of Grant as a a sad sorry case for suggesting his drug abuse was from a lack of self-esteem.
"They were all nice tho" Mum said.
"Yeah I like them a lot too".
"Grants ex-boyfriend says he's really attracted to you"
"Why do so many guys get infatuated with me?"
"Its not a bad thing, love it while it lasts"
I told her I wouldn't be happy until I was living in Sydney dating Anthony Callea.
She laughed
I went to bed merrily drunk.
The next morning I got up, tired, dopey and satisfied.
It was cold. The drop in temperature meant I finally got a decent nights sleep.
I looked out the windom. There was mist on the surrounding hills. The drizzle feel calmy and put a dreamy little haze on everything. I felt insulated from the searing sun, I felt insulated from the world out there. I felt safe.
I smelt the wet eucalypt and watched Christmas miovies on TV. I drank Miso Soup. I didn't speak a word to Nancy Reagan.
I was happy.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Shooting Dogs
I had an urge to cut myself today. We were on the home from the pub. A little pit full of anxiety tempted me to dash into the bathroom with a knife and slash away.
My sister is getting my parents new knives for Christmas perhaps it would be more sensible to wait until then.
I cant hear myself think in this house.
I cant hear myself think right now.
Dad's on the phone. He's being 'hilarious'. He yells when he talks.
Its of course ok to joke now because he's drunk.
Nothing was funny all day today.
Or yesterday, when I wsa told to stop "being silly". Seriously.
Not when Im being funny. Not to steal his limelight.
He's been a fucking headache since I got here. Im sick of hearing about his shit.
Speaking of which, he farted before when he was outside and accidentally shit his pants. Shit ran down his legs. He had to have a shower. Everyone lauged.
Im not joking.
The other day Mum when it didn't look like I was going to get any Centrelink payments, his response??? (looking sincerely stressed)
"I tried to call u to say we were running out of milk"
I looked in the fridge there was still three litres.
"At least we still have milk" I said.
I hate being here. Milk or no milk. And don't get me started about his 'strawberry crunch' ice-creams. Dad specialises in basic food, fresh from the 1950s.
Im going out of my mind.
He has refused to take part in our Christmas lunch - "Christmas doesnt mean anything to me" - apparently the family doesnt mean heaps either.
Oh yeah, that's right....your mentally fucking ill....how would the birth of Jesus change that?
The one thing we do as a family together is play tennis. Im good at it. It keeps me in shape. It gives me something to do when there is nothing much else to do. He doesn't want to play, its too hot during the day he says and cant see properly at night.
He says he cant understand why Moslems want to build a school in a rural area of NSW because "there are only 1000 Moslems in the area".
Only? Later that night Fred Nile appeared on Today Tonight saying Moslems are anti-Christmas and the school should not be built.
"Something fishy is going on here Dad. I think its cover to build the Islamic nuclear bomb" I said.
He walked-off perplexed.
As far as I see it, the demons are within. Most of the heartbreaks and pain we experience are from the people we are closest too, not Moslems and certainly not Moslem high schools. In his case, Id be more concerned with being a grown man who shits his pants than teenage girls wearing burkas.
Ive had a migraine type headache since I got up here. I cant work out whether im withdrawing or its the heat.
I havent felt well since I got up here. I want to leave, but Ive got nowhere to go. Ive also had a pain in the stomach all week.
A little bit of the artificial rapture wouldn't hurt right now.
A little bit of a trampoline, springing off reality and up to the loving arms of god.
Floating off into self-confidence, grandiose illusions, love for all, instant happy and fucking good hair. I'll have a make-over, pop a pill, pick up a teenage boy then get stoned and cack myself with my friends about the silliness of it all the next day. I'll still be glamourous on monday, so I'll skip work with a migraine and a touch of the psychosis - go out again monday night, feel like men are all over me...use them for drinks and covercharge and then maybe reluctantly fuck one of them if they get me drunk enough and promise to drive me home. On a good night Ill put a queen back in his box, scare a straight guy, reject a fatso, declare myself the best dancer and watch how easily I can fit with the 'in' group. Ill come home have a breakdown, think I'm ugly, hallucinate that I have a hole in my face, drain my friends of their last emotional reserves and wonder why X, Y and Z haven't texted me back. I might then have an anxiety attack, smoke a bong, pine for a boy to cuddle up next to me, scheme a way to get more drugs and then if all that fails then its probably time to get some heroin. I finally go to work on Wednesday, where one colleague tells they are worried about me "because your shaking like a leaf" and then another tells me how terrible I look. But hey,
'Ive still got a good job and date for the weekend. My life really isnt that bad"
Thursdays are often spent working out why Ive been dumped this week and then trying to pretend I dont really care anyway. I'll go out on Friday in a brand new outfit, worried I look try-hardish and out of shape. Perhaps I dress too young for my age. Concerns fade when a straight girl comes up to me and tells me ten times that "really, really cute" - then wonder if she would say the same thing if I was straight - cant see any gay boys telling me Im wonderful. Impress tag-along friends with how many people I know, that I know the right people and even the hip young drag queens who are very selective abouth who they talk too. See, here, nobody wants to bother fucking with me here....I can get anything I want...."Imagine if the whole world was gay, I'd fucking rule this land" I say. But really Im feeling anxious and awkward and self-conscious and unattractive and FUCK I NEED A PILL....got one...need another...and another. Its close to morning and I feel tired and Ive got nothing to go home to and Ill touch your cock if you give me some speed. Happy again. It all falls apart when the 'it' crowd to invite me back to their after-party and then Im back on the train with the tag-along and Im wondering how all these normal people doing their everyday Saturday shit could possibly function without the lure of the rapture.
HOW THE FUCK DO YOU CUNTS DO IT?
Chances are youve still a migraine from your working week. You still remember the time you got dumped and your worried there isnt enough milk in the fridge.
Cant you see you are in some way less than your neighbour?
That your destined for a life of labour and in the cold, hard light of day none of us are particulaurly good looking.
Most of our time is spent doing things we dont want to do. I hate being here, do you?
Do u ever cut yourself when you feel bad? Do you live in a fantasy world?
Yknow what Dad, Ive never talked to you about this before but the expirty date on the scene is nearly up and am already starting to smell.
Then I'll be like you. Just as insane and self-centered and weak-bowelled, probably much more lonely but thankfully not as fat.
My sister is getting my parents new knives for Christmas perhaps it would be more sensible to wait until then.
I cant hear myself think in this house.
I cant hear myself think right now.
Dad's on the phone. He's being 'hilarious'. He yells when he talks.
Its of course ok to joke now because he's drunk.
Nothing was funny all day today.
Or yesterday, when I wsa told to stop "being silly". Seriously.
Not when Im being funny. Not to steal his limelight.
He's been a fucking headache since I got here. Im sick of hearing about his shit.
Speaking of which, he farted before when he was outside and accidentally shit his pants. Shit ran down his legs. He had to have a shower. Everyone lauged.
Im not joking.
The other day Mum when it didn't look like I was going to get any Centrelink payments, his response??? (looking sincerely stressed)
"I tried to call u to say we were running out of milk"
I looked in the fridge there was still three litres.
"At least we still have milk" I said.
I hate being here. Milk or no milk. And don't get me started about his 'strawberry crunch' ice-creams. Dad specialises in basic food, fresh from the 1950s.
Im going out of my mind.
He has refused to take part in our Christmas lunch - "Christmas doesnt mean anything to me" - apparently the family doesnt mean heaps either.
Oh yeah, that's right....your mentally fucking ill....how would the birth of Jesus change that?
The one thing we do as a family together is play tennis. Im good at it. It keeps me in shape. It gives me something to do when there is nothing much else to do. He doesn't want to play, its too hot during the day he says and cant see properly at night.
He says he cant understand why Moslems want to build a school in a rural area of NSW because "there are only 1000 Moslems in the area".
Only? Later that night Fred Nile appeared on Today Tonight saying Moslems are anti-Christmas and the school should not be built.
"Something fishy is going on here Dad. I think its cover to build the Islamic nuclear bomb" I said.
He walked-off perplexed.
As far as I see it, the demons are within. Most of the heartbreaks and pain we experience are from the people we are closest too, not Moslems and certainly not Moslem high schools. In his case, Id be more concerned with being a grown man who shits his pants than teenage girls wearing burkas.
Ive had a migraine type headache since I got up here. I cant work out whether im withdrawing or its the heat.
I havent felt well since I got up here. I want to leave, but Ive got nowhere to go. Ive also had a pain in the stomach all week.
A little bit of the artificial rapture wouldn't hurt right now.
A little bit of a trampoline, springing off reality and up to the loving arms of god.
Floating off into self-confidence, grandiose illusions, love for all, instant happy and fucking good hair. I'll have a make-over, pop a pill, pick up a teenage boy then get stoned and cack myself with my friends about the silliness of it all the next day. I'll still be glamourous on monday, so I'll skip work with a migraine and a touch of the psychosis - go out again monday night, feel like men are all over me...use them for drinks and covercharge and then maybe reluctantly fuck one of them if they get me drunk enough and promise to drive me home. On a good night Ill put a queen back in his box, scare a straight guy, reject a fatso, declare myself the best dancer and watch how easily I can fit with the 'in' group. Ill come home have a breakdown, think I'm ugly, hallucinate that I have a hole in my face, drain my friends of their last emotional reserves and wonder why X, Y and Z haven't texted me back. I might then have an anxiety attack, smoke a bong, pine for a boy to cuddle up next to me, scheme a way to get more drugs and then if all that fails then its probably time to get some heroin. I finally go to work on Wednesday, where one colleague tells they are worried about me "because your shaking like a leaf" and then another tells me how terrible I look. But hey,
'Ive still got a good job and date for the weekend. My life really isnt that bad"
Thursdays are often spent working out why Ive been dumped this week and then trying to pretend I dont really care anyway. I'll go out on Friday in a brand new outfit, worried I look try-hardish and out of shape. Perhaps I dress too young for my age. Concerns fade when a straight girl comes up to me and tells me ten times that "really, really cute" - then wonder if she would say the same thing if I was straight - cant see any gay boys telling me Im wonderful. Impress tag-along friends with how many people I know, that I know the right people and even the hip young drag queens who are very selective abouth who they talk too. See, here, nobody wants to bother fucking with me here....I can get anything I want...."Imagine if the whole world was gay, I'd fucking rule this land" I say. But really Im feeling anxious and awkward and self-conscious and unattractive and FUCK I NEED A PILL....got one...need another...and another. Its close to morning and I feel tired and Ive got nothing to go home to and Ill touch your cock if you give me some speed. Happy again. It all falls apart when the 'it' crowd to invite me back to their after-party and then Im back on the train with the tag-along and Im wondering how all these normal people doing their everyday Saturday shit could possibly function without the lure of the rapture.
HOW THE FUCK DO YOU CUNTS DO IT?
Chances are youve still a migraine from your working week. You still remember the time you got dumped and your worried there isnt enough milk in the fridge.
Cant you see you are in some way less than your neighbour?
That your destined for a life of labour and in the cold, hard light of day none of us are particulaurly good looking.
Most of our time is spent doing things we dont want to do. I hate being here, do you?
Do u ever cut yourself when you feel bad? Do you live in a fantasy world?
Yknow what Dad, Ive never talked to you about this before but the expirty date on the scene is nearly up and am already starting to smell.
Then I'll be like you. Just as insane and self-centered and weak-bowelled, probably much more lonely but thankfully not as fat.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
The Logies 2007
Yesterday, a b-grade celebrity friend of mine sent a link of from Facebook of a photo of us the last night before the Logies.
She and her entourage were down for the event. She had very nearly been nominated.
We want on the GREAT MELBOURNE FERRISWHEEL that night.
We had a dinner at an expensive Southbank restaurant and to a hip bar where we sipped cocktails.
It was a night that started a whole heap of unspeakable shit for me, so let me explain why.
I organised drugs for her and some television PR people.
"Not enough to be off our head, just enough to feel awake" was the request.
My rough-as-shit friend turned up with the drugs. She was off her dial and dressed like a fuck-head. I lied to her and told her we weren't able to get back into the bar. I didn't want my fancy new friends to see her. To link her back to me. To see where I had come from.
I gave them the drugs. They were happy. They asked me if I could get coke. They asked me if I wanted to go to the Logies.
"Will it be too much trouble" I asked.
"No darling, just wear a nice suit. I can get u into the media room and the after-party easy" said one glamorous PR woman.
I had already taken my share of the drugs and the prospect of me going to logies, as trashy and as Aussie as they are, got me excited.
"Yeah, that would b great" I said.
By midnight I left Cookie bar, due to meet Bree and two of her friends on Chapel St.
When I met them, Bree was drunk as fuck and her friends where slightly pissed off at her state. They were eating KFC. They were all looking gorgeous and glam as usual and when they eyed me up a down I couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious about my appearance.
I nonchantly told them about my invite to the Logies.
"Oh really" said Poppy, eyes Poppying out of her head. "So where do you want to go tonight?"
"Well I can't have a late one" I told her.
"Let's to go the Market" said Bree.
When she said that I felt a twinge of anxiety. Since the break-up three months ago I'd only ventured out on the gay scene a couple of times and I was still scared of walking into gay places. It wasn't so much the cliqueness or the coolness of it, but the prospect of being judged only by looks for 6 hours (when i had spent the past 5 years doing radio and studying political science, IE. not giving a fuck about looks) scared the fuck out of me. Edging 30, with a desire for young boys....it was a fear that seemed to be in perfect proportion with reality.
We walked in, Bree whispered to her friends that I go there all the time. It was a lie I was happy to live with.
Anyway this was a significant night that went all the way until 1 in the afternoon the next day.
Here's why and to make it more interesting for you Ive put it in a top 5 format.
5. I saw Trent again
A week earlier I had spotted Trent in the toilets. I told him he knew me before he was a high profile commercial TV journalist. I told him I was now a journalist as well. He said I should come at work at his TV station. He said "come with me" and took me into a cubicle and sucked his bite sized dick.
I saw him again at about 5am. We ended up spending the next four hours on the couch chatting. Every now and then he would stuff a pill in my mouth.
He told me how much he hated it at the ABC and questioned why I was so interested in working there.
"I want to be a radio presenter"
"Why?....Whats so good about being on-air"
I couldn't answer him.
He told me how much he loved it at his TV station and laughed when I said my fav journo was Tony Jones from Lateline.
With that feeling of wanting to fit-in, wanting to be hott, wanting a boyfriend ten times better than the last and that feeling of drug-induced "anything is possible" I started to reevaluate my goals.
I'd lived the last 5 years with the aim of becoming a radio presenter on the ABC, perhaps even on Triple J. I'd dedicated my whole life to it. I'd worked weekends. Late nights. Moved to a terrible country town. Ended a long-term relationship and cried hysterically every time it didn't look like i'd achieve my goal. It had sowed my little together, given it meaning and given me a sense of who I was.
And I suddenly realised I could not answer the simple question of "why do you want to do it"
I didn't know. I didn't have a good reason. Trent seemed to have all the answers, he was super-smooth and super self-satisfied.
On that grotty couch at 9am on the day of the logies sitting near an old man mouth wide-open overdosing on GHB and surrounded by smelly drug-fucked gay men dancing with their shirts off I felt the first signs of the ground beneath me beginning to fall apart.
Id sacrificed nearly every thing in my life for this one purpose and for what????
And why????
Here I was sitting in a gay nightclub, a place I vowed never to go back to and I was feeling more happy, satisfied, fulfilled, popular and confident that I'd felt the whole time I was living in radio land.
U can work and work and work at being happy and never quite get there. Take the right pill and bam! instant happy. Life suddenly seemed as though it was much simpler than I'd ever thought. The earnest wanker in me began to fade away and with it the very things that had kept me from going completely off the deep end all these years.
4. Jacob
I spent most of my time walking around The Market that night feeling insecure and embarrased. I would take mental note of who looked at me and who didnt and who seemed to be attracted to me and who didnt. I was 27 now. I was never stunning and now I was going to grow old as an ugly old poofter bastard. Oh and lonely as a cat. For whatever reason Ive had periods in my life when Ive felt so ugly that everything else in my life had seen pointless. That even leaving the house has been excrutiating. I'd forgetton this until I broke-up with John. Bit by bit those insecurities crept back. I'd been taking millions of photos of myself on my phone and spend ages looking in the mirror. Either to the point of narcissistic satisfaction or extreme revulsion. My mind was never going to accept I could some way between disgusting and gorgeous. It needed to feel extra special to some degree. I always had the feeling that when I walked around a gay club people where only judging me on one level - my looks. Nobody ever asked me about what subjects I studied in my Political Science degree. Here was a place where intelligence, manners and decency doesnt matter - its all about beauty and sex appeal.
I was walking up the steps on my own when I saw a cute little guy with blonde hair stop and look at me. I saw his eyes flash like he'd seen something really nice and it almost embarrassed him. I smiled at him. He smiled and blushed back. There was something going on there. I'd never had that with someone since I'd been going out. That instant animal magnetism - and it was reciprocated.
I then preceeded to carry on like a nervous fucking ETHEL at her first blue light disco.
She and her entourage were down for the event. She had very nearly been nominated.
We want on the GREAT MELBOURNE FERRISWHEEL that night.
We had a dinner at an expensive Southbank restaurant and to a hip bar where we sipped cocktails.
It was a night that started a whole heap of unspeakable shit for me, so let me explain why.
I organised drugs for her and some television PR people.
"Not enough to be off our head, just enough to feel awake" was the request.
My rough-as-shit friend turned up with the drugs. She was off her dial and dressed like a fuck-head. I lied to her and told her we weren't able to get back into the bar. I didn't want my fancy new friends to see her. To link her back to me. To see where I had come from.
I gave them the drugs. They were happy. They asked me if I could get coke. They asked me if I wanted to go to the Logies.
"Will it be too much trouble" I asked.
"No darling, just wear a nice suit. I can get u into the media room and the after-party easy" said one glamorous PR woman.
I had already taken my share of the drugs and the prospect of me going to logies, as trashy and as Aussie as they are, got me excited.
"Yeah, that would b great" I said.
By midnight I left Cookie bar, due to meet Bree and two of her friends on Chapel St.
When I met them, Bree was drunk as fuck and her friends where slightly pissed off at her state. They were eating KFC. They were all looking gorgeous and glam as usual and when they eyed me up a down I couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious about my appearance.
I nonchantly told them about my invite to the Logies.
"Oh really" said Poppy, eyes Poppying out of her head. "So where do you want to go tonight?"
"Well I can't have a late one" I told her.
"Let's to go the Market" said Bree.
When she said that I felt a twinge of anxiety. Since the break-up three months ago I'd only ventured out on the gay scene a couple of times and I was still scared of walking into gay places. It wasn't so much the cliqueness or the coolness of it, but the prospect of being judged only by looks for 6 hours (when i had spent the past 5 years doing radio and studying political science, IE. not giving a fuck about looks) scared the fuck out of me. Edging 30, with a desire for young boys....it was a fear that seemed to be in perfect proportion with reality.
We walked in, Bree whispered to her friends that I go there all the time. It was a lie I was happy to live with.
Anyway this was a significant night that went all the way until 1 in the afternoon the next day.
Here's why and to make it more interesting for you Ive put it in a top 5 format.
5. I saw Trent again
A week earlier I had spotted Trent in the toilets. I told him he knew me before he was a high profile commercial TV journalist. I told him I was now a journalist as well. He said I should come at work at his TV station. He said "come with me" and took me into a cubicle and sucked his bite sized dick.
I saw him again at about 5am. We ended up spending the next four hours on the couch chatting. Every now and then he would stuff a pill in my mouth.
He told me how much he hated it at the ABC and questioned why I was so interested in working there.
"I want to be a radio presenter"
"Why?....Whats so good about being on-air"
I couldn't answer him.
He told me how much he loved it at his TV station and laughed when I said my fav journo was Tony Jones from Lateline.
With that feeling of wanting to fit-in, wanting to be hott, wanting a boyfriend ten times better than the last and that feeling of drug-induced "anything is possible" I started to reevaluate my goals.
I'd lived the last 5 years with the aim of becoming a radio presenter on the ABC, perhaps even on Triple J. I'd dedicated my whole life to it. I'd worked weekends. Late nights. Moved to a terrible country town. Ended a long-term relationship and cried hysterically every time it didn't look like i'd achieve my goal. It had sowed my little together, given it meaning and given me a sense of who I was.
And I suddenly realised I could not answer the simple question of "why do you want to do it"
I didn't know. I didn't have a good reason. Trent seemed to have all the answers, he was super-smooth and super self-satisfied.
On that grotty couch at 9am on the day of the logies sitting near an old man mouth wide-open overdosing on GHB and surrounded by smelly drug-fucked gay men dancing with their shirts off I felt the first signs of the ground beneath me beginning to fall apart.
Id sacrificed nearly every thing in my life for this one purpose and for what????
And why????
Here I was sitting in a gay nightclub, a place I vowed never to go back to and I was feeling more happy, satisfied, fulfilled, popular and confident that I'd felt the whole time I was living in radio land.
U can work and work and work at being happy and never quite get there. Take the right pill and bam! instant happy. Life suddenly seemed as though it was much simpler than I'd ever thought. The earnest wanker in me began to fade away and with it the very things that had kept me from going completely off the deep end all these years.
4. Jacob
I spent most of my time walking around The Market that night feeling insecure and embarrased. I would take mental note of who looked at me and who didnt and who seemed to be attracted to me and who didnt. I was 27 now. I was never stunning and now I was going to grow old as an ugly old poofter bastard. Oh and lonely as a cat. For whatever reason Ive had periods in my life when Ive felt so ugly that everything else in my life had seen pointless. That even leaving the house has been excrutiating. I'd forgetton this until I broke-up with John. Bit by bit those insecurities crept back. I'd been taking millions of photos of myself on my phone and spend ages looking in the mirror. Either to the point of narcissistic satisfaction or extreme revulsion. My mind was never going to accept I could some way between disgusting and gorgeous. It needed to feel extra special to some degree. I always had the feeling that when I walked around a gay club people where only judging me on one level - my looks. Nobody ever asked me about what subjects I studied in my Political Science degree. Here was a place where intelligence, manners and decency doesnt matter - its all about beauty and sex appeal.
I was walking up the steps on my own when I saw a cute little guy with blonde hair stop and look at me. I saw his eyes flash like he'd seen something really nice and it almost embarrassed him. I smiled at him. He smiled and blushed back. There was something going on there. I'd never had that with someone since I'd been going out. That instant animal magnetism - and it was reciprocated.
I then preceeded to carry on like a nervous fucking ETHEL at her first blue light disco.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Today I asked the world for help.
This meant connecting my very disorganised brain with the allegedly hyper-rational world of bureaucracy.
It begun at the Doctors office as I told my abrigded story (to the tenth health care professional) of how my life fell to bits this years. The African Doctor looked at me perplexed, mildy disinterested and perhaps grappling with his own anxiety when I explained the constant crying at my desk and bouts of heroin use.
I wondered if my existential crisis meant shit to a Doctor who came from a continent ravaged by AIDS.
He said that the drug use "must have really hit my pocket"(I wonder what he would have thought about my sugar daddy) and declined my request for a Centrelink appraisal. He referred me to a psychiatrist. I pleaded with him to write a medical certificate. He declined.
We drove 45 minutes through grey skies and humidity. A billboard sprung up in the middle of nowhere.
"Centrum...do you feel 100%??"
Yeah, 100% shit.
The psychiatrists office in Bundaberg was small with no natural light. A man sat rocking back and forth on his chair. An uptight woman sat with her teenage daughter. The receptionist told me I couldn't get an appointment until the end of January. After that, it would Centrelink another 6 weeks to process my claim. I have $1.52 in my bank account.
We couldn't find the drug rehab clinic I'll be staying at in January. That is, of course, if I pass the detox test to show I've been clean for 4 weeks.
Mum took me back to the GP to plead with him to write me a certificate.
"There's a history of mental illness in our family" she told him.
"I'm on medication, his uncles have schizophrenia, his father has bipolar. His employer has told him he cant work. He is sick and needs money to live on."
He went Awol. He told us we had no right to come in there and tell him what to do. He was "not a prisoner".
"How can u do this to me?" he asked us.
"How can u do this to him?" my Mum spat back.
His eyes popped out of his head. He was more scared that aggressive.
"I reckon he is under investigation for giving dodgy medical certificates" my Mum said as we left.
On the way home my Liberal-voting Mum came to the very anti-Today Tonight conclusion that mentally ill people who didn't have families who could support them would be fucked.
"Yeah, they make-up most of the homeless population" I said.
I then drew references to comments she made about young homeless people "just leaving home to party".
I eventually got an appointment with another Doctor when I got home and rang the psychologist who had called the CAT team on me earlier in the year.
That afternoon I spent in bed. Lying down. Not depressed, not really anxious. Just longing. Something crying out to be fed deep in my stomach. I failed to identify the need. Did I need someone to cuddle? Did I need a partner? Do I need something to eat? Or a cigarette??? There was an ache in my being....I'm not saying I was craving drugs, but if someone had drugs on them at the time I would have taken them to stop ache and lose my thoughts and play around illusions in my own head about being something that I'm probably not.
When I got up A Current Affair was blaring in the lounge room. There was a story about the 'intelligent bra'. Then a story about a little pain relief device. A woman came on saying she couldn't bend her knees until she used this device.
"Now my husband can fuck me doggy style" I interjected, just to get a reaction from my parents...who ignored me.
Still the ache remained. I rang a couple of friends who didn't answer. Took a double dose of zoloft and randomnly found our missing pet Kangaroo in the front yard. My parents thought she was dead. They had been speculating all day about how she died.
My Dad said "I can just imagine her lost in the bush sucking her paws. Then the wild dogs would find her".
"Or the dogs next door" Mum added.
Dogs ripping apart the little female Kangaroo, playing with her, biting her tail, attacking her throat, barely even eating her when they kill her. They would have killed her for fun. Because she couldn't bite back. Because its there nature. Our nature. Just like in my dreams, but somehow not as troubling not as symbolic. As if getting upset about the way the world works will get u nowhere. Why would it trouble us that a Kangaroo would die???
But she's back anyway. Mum and Dad fussed over her when she got back. They fed her jam sandwiches and brought her bed back into the lounger room.
"Hello my darling little girl" where my Dad's exact words when he found her.
She's laying behind me. Nervous. Primal. Not Ok with me to sleep. I wonder of she longs for a partner. For freedom. To live as nature intended bounding through the fields, running from predators. Shitting in the grass. I wonder if she aches but doesn't know why and if it all goes away when she buries her head in a jam sandwich. I wonder if this human life makes her forget what she really misses out on. If only she had an imagination and she began to long for something more then Skippy the bush kangaroo would have her first ever psychological crisis.
This meant connecting my very disorganised brain with the allegedly hyper-rational world of bureaucracy.
It begun at the Doctors office as I told my abrigded story (to the tenth health care professional) of how my life fell to bits this years. The African Doctor looked at me perplexed, mildy disinterested and perhaps grappling with his own anxiety when I explained the constant crying at my desk and bouts of heroin use.
I wondered if my existential crisis meant shit to a Doctor who came from a continent ravaged by AIDS.
He said that the drug use "must have really hit my pocket"(I wonder what he would have thought about my sugar daddy) and declined my request for a Centrelink appraisal. He referred me to a psychiatrist. I pleaded with him to write a medical certificate. He declined.
We drove 45 minutes through grey skies and humidity. A billboard sprung up in the middle of nowhere.
"Centrum...do you feel 100%??"
Yeah, 100% shit.
The psychiatrists office in Bundaberg was small with no natural light. A man sat rocking back and forth on his chair. An uptight woman sat with her teenage daughter. The receptionist told me I couldn't get an appointment until the end of January. After that, it would Centrelink another 6 weeks to process my claim. I have $1.52 in my bank account.
We couldn't find the drug rehab clinic I'll be staying at in January. That is, of course, if I pass the detox test to show I've been clean for 4 weeks.
Mum took me back to the GP to plead with him to write me a certificate.
"There's a history of mental illness in our family" she told him.
"I'm on medication, his uncles have schizophrenia, his father has bipolar. His employer has told him he cant work. He is sick and needs money to live on."
He went Awol. He told us we had no right to come in there and tell him what to do. He was "not a prisoner".
"How can u do this to me?" he asked us.
"How can u do this to him?" my Mum spat back.
His eyes popped out of his head. He was more scared that aggressive.
"I reckon he is under investigation for giving dodgy medical certificates" my Mum said as we left.
On the way home my Liberal-voting Mum came to the very anti-Today Tonight conclusion that mentally ill people who didn't have families who could support them would be fucked.
"Yeah, they make-up most of the homeless population" I said.
I then drew references to comments she made about young homeless people "just leaving home to party".
I eventually got an appointment with another Doctor when I got home and rang the psychologist who had called the CAT team on me earlier in the year.
That afternoon I spent in bed. Lying down. Not depressed, not really anxious. Just longing. Something crying out to be fed deep in my stomach. I failed to identify the need. Did I need someone to cuddle? Did I need a partner? Do I need something to eat? Or a cigarette??? There was an ache in my being....I'm not saying I was craving drugs, but if someone had drugs on them at the time I would have taken them to stop ache and lose my thoughts and play around illusions in my own head about being something that I'm probably not.
When I got up A Current Affair was blaring in the lounge room. There was a story about the 'intelligent bra'. Then a story about a little pain relief device. A woman came on saying she couldn't bend her knees until she used this device.
"Now my husband can fuck me doggy style" I interjected, just to get a reaction from my parents...who ignored me.
Still the ache remained. I rang a couple of friends who didn't answer. Took a double dose of zoloft and randomnly found our missing pet Kangaroo in the front yard. My parents thought she was dead. They had been speculating all day about how she died.
My Dad said "I can just imagine her lost in the bush sucking her paws. Then the wild dogs would find her".
"Or the dogs next door" Mum added.
Dogs ripping apart the little female Kangaroo, playing with her, biting her tail, attacking her throat, barely even eating her when they kill her. They would have killed her for fun. Because she couldn't bite back. Because its there nature. Our nature. Just like in my dreams, but somehow not as troubling not as symbolic. As if getting upset about the way the world works will get u nowhere. Why would it trouble us that a Kangaroo would die???
But she's back anyway. Mum and Dad fussed over her when she got back. They fed her jam sandwiches and brought her bed back into the lounger room.
"Hello my darling little girl" where my Dad's exact words when he found her.
She's laying behind me. Nervous. Primal. Not Ok with me to sleep. I wonder of she longs for a partner. For freedom. To live as nature intended bounding through the fields, running from predators. Shitting in the grass. I wonder if she aches but doesn't know why and if it all goes away when she buries her head in a jam sandwich. I wonder if this human life makes her forget what she really misses out on. If only she had an imagination and she began to long for something more then Skippy the bush kangaroo would have her first ever psychological crisis.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
After 5 Years Off the Gay Scene Luke Williams wonders why he ever returned
Last night, nearly 11 years after I first out on the scene I had my very first dream about a gay nightclub. It was 10.20am on a Sunday morning
PLEASE DONT TELL ME ABOUT YOUR DREAMS
Don't you hate people who talk about their dreams???
Well you'll love this entry.
"Last night I dreamed I rode naked on a Unicorn".
No i didn't. I'm not that lame.
Ok, keep in mind much of identity, drug-taking and love affairs have been formed at a funky, three-storey mixed (but predominantly gay) mightclub called The Market.
Last night, after first going there for 7 years ago....I had my first dream about it.
I was walking up the steps and walking down the opposite way, on a different set of steps was a guy who I always had a crush in high school. As far as I know...in real life....this guy is not gay. But in my dream (lol) he was really gay looking. He had an emo haircut like Matt. He was actually a hybrid between Matt and this guy from school. He waved at me and walked off.
Then I realised it was about twenty past ten in the morning and the place was shutting early. The only person left on the dance floor was my boss Ali. I told her about Aaron (the guy from school who was also half Matt) and how I had always had a crush on him and now he was at a gay nightclub. She said it was great but had spilt all her marbles on the dancefloor. They were everywhere. I offered to help pick them up, but they were in lots of little pieces and I wasn't even sure where they all went.
I left with Aaron and his friend who dropped me off at the base of my parents old house in Emerald. We pashed like horny school girls when I left.
Ok......so Dr Luke the self-obsessed psychoanalyst says.....
The most obvious thing for me is "losing marbles on the dancefloor". Its pretty clear what this means and if anyone has seen me attempt to dance they would know what I'm talking about. So many things mentally disintegrated, fell-apart and re-organised in that place. It was a place where I felt unwanted, desired, smoked ICE, mixed with celebrities, told my haircut was OVA over, took GHB, kissed men so they would give me speed, doted on 18 year olds, changed my hair, changed my clothes, spent multiple days awake, danced like a fuckwit, overcame my fears, had drug-induced psychosis and spiced up my lingo just to get a glimpse into a couple of "in groups".
In essence I lost my fucking mind and Ali represented the "normal, straight, together, working" me that couldn't piece back together to function. My mind fell apart and I had no idea how to put back together again or even what went where. So I started laughing at my own insanity and left it going as the mess that it was.
As for, the Aaron-Matt hybrid person. This might go some way to explaining why I feel rejection so deeply. As a closeted gay man at school I frequently had feelings for other guys at school. I never told them, but everytime I got close to even flirting I was rejected and even made fun of. That's a few crucial years I missed on. Learning how to handle relationships. Learning the little lessons of how to play the game, how to know if someone doesn't like you, how to dump someone. I think I spent a lot of years feeling ugly, unloved, unloveable, freaky, dirty, effeminate, wrong. I think that's why I've also spent a lot of time dating guys who are 17-18-19. I'm trying to fill a big hole (lol, so to speak) in my life that I went without the stuff I needed. Like love and sex and a peer group and feeling like I fit somewhere. So when I get rejected or dumped now, the feeling is multiplied. I am transported back to that abject place in myself. That place where I am unlovable, dirty, unwanted. That teenage boy who nobody else wants to be. That only finds his way into the company of others if he promises that they can laugh at him.
Well you'll love this entry.
"Last night I dreamed I rode naked on a Unicorn".
No i didn't. I'm not that lame.
Ok, keep in mind much of identity, drug-taking and love affairs have been formed at a funky, three-storey mixed (but predominantly gay) mightclub called The Market.
Last night, after first going there for 7 years ago....I had my first dream about it.
I was walking up the steps and walking down the opposite way, on a different set of steps was a guy who I always had a crush in high school. As far as I know...in real life....this guy is not gay. But in my dream (lol) he was really gay looking. He had an emo haircut like Matt. He was actually a hybrid between Matt and this guy from school. He waved at me and walked off.
Then I realised it was about twenty past ten in the morning and the place was shutting early. The only person left on the dance floor was my boss Ali. I told her about Aaron (the guy from school who was also half Matt) and how I had always had a crush on him and now he was at a gay nightclub. She said it was great but had spilt all her marbles on the dancefloor. They were everywhere. I offered to help pick them up, but they were in lots of little pieces and I wasn't even sure where they all went.
I left with Aaron and his friend who dropped me off at the base of my parents old house in Emerald. We pashed like horny school girls when I left.
Ok......so Dr Luke the self-obsessed psychoanalyst says.....
The most obvious thing for me is "losing marbles on the dancefloor". Its pretty clear what this means and if anyone has seen me attempt to dance they would know what I'm talking about. So many things mentally disintegrated, fell-apart and re-organised in that place. It was a place where I felt unwanted, desired, smoked ICE, mixed with celebrities, told my haircut was OVA over, took GHB, kissed men so they would give me speed, doted on 18 year olds, changed my hair, changed my clothes, spent multiple days awake, danced like a fuckwit, overcame my fears, had drug-induced psychosis and spiced up my lingo just to get a glimpse into a couple of "in groups".
In essence I lost my fucking mind and Ali represented the "normal, straight, together, working" me that couldn't piece back together to function. My mind fell apart and I had no idea how to put back together again or even what went where. So I started laughing at my own insanity and left it going as the mess that it was.
As for, the Aaron-Matt hybrid person. This might go some way to explaining why I feel rejection so deeply. As a closeted gay man at school I frequently had feelings for other guys at school. I never told them, but everytime I got close to even flirting I was rejected and even made fun of. That's a few crucial years I missed on. Learning how to handle relationships. Learning the little lessons of how to play the game, how to know if someone doesn't like you, how to dump someone. I think I spent a lot of years feeling ugly, unloved, unloveable, freaky, dirty, effeminate, wrong. I think that's why I've also spent a lot of time dating guys who are 17-18-19. I'm trying to fill a big hole (lol, so to speak) in my life that I went without the stuff I needed. Like love and sex and a peer group and feeling like I fit somewhere. So when I get rejected or dumped now, the feeling is multiplied. I am transported back to that abject place in myself. That place where I am unlovable, dirty, unwanted. That teenage boy who nobody else wants to be. That only finds his way into the company of others if he promises that they can laugh at him.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
I found this online.
It's a way to determine how severe your amphetamine addiction is.
Ha ha ha.
Patient Name _____________________ BP _____ Pulse ____ Res _____Temp ______
AWS SCORE _____________________ Date _______
______________________________________
AGITATION-Observation
0 Normal activity
1 Somewhat more than normal activity
2
3
4 Moderately fidgety and restless
5
6
7 Paces back and forth or constantly thrashes about
_______________________________________
SWEATING Observation
0 No sweat visible
1 Palms moist
2
3
4 Beads of sweat on forehead
5
6
7 Drenching sweats
_______________________________________
ANXIETY-Ask “Do you feel nervous or
afraid?” Observation
0 No anxiety, calm and tranquil
1 Mildly anxious
2
3
4 Moderately anxious, defensive or guarded.
5
6
7 Severely anxious, equivalent to panic
_______________________________________
PARANOIA-Ask “Do you feel people are paying special attention to you? Do you feel anyone is out to get you or give you a hard time?
0 No paranoia
1 Mildly suspicious
2
3
4 Moderately paranoid or suspicious.
5
6
7 Severely paranoid with delusions of persecution
____________________________________________
CRAVING-Ask “Are you craving drugs or alcohol?
0 No craving
1 Mild or occasionally thinking about drug use
2
3
4 Moderate craving drug use throughout the day.
5
6
7 Severe can’t stop craving.
____________________________________________
DEPRESSION Ask “Do you feel sad or depressed? ”If yes, “On a scale of one to seven how depressed do you feel?”
0 None
1 Mild depression
2
3
4 Moderate depressed most of the day
5
6
7 Severe depressed all day every day.
____________________________________________
TACTILE DISTURBANCES-Ask “Have you had any itching or burning or do you feel bugs crawling on or under your skin?”
0 Not present
1 Mile itching burning or pins and needles
2
3 Moderate itching burning or pins and needles
4 Moderately severe hallucinations
5
6
7 Continuous hallucinations
____________________________________________
AUDITORY DISTURBANCES Ask “Do sounds seem too loud or harsh? Do they frighten you? Are you hearing things that are not there?”
0 Not present
1 Very mild harshness or ability to frighten
2 Mild harshness or ability to frighten
3 Moderate harshness or ability to frighten
4 Moderate hallucinations
5 Severe hallucinations
6 Extremely severe hallucinations
7 Continuous hallucinations
____________________________________________
VISUAL DISTURBANCES Ask “Does the light appear to be too bright? Does it hurt your eyes? Are you seeing things that are not there?”
0 Not present
1 Very mild sensitivity
2 Mild sensitivity
3 Moderate sensitivity
4 Moderate hallucinations
5 Severe hallucinations
6 Extremely severe hallucinations
7 Continuous hallucinations
____________________________________________
ORIENTATION Ask “What day is this? Where are you? Who am I? What is your name?”
0 Oriented
1 Uncertain about date
2 Disoriented by date by no more than 2 days
3 Disoriented to date by more than 2 days
4 Disoriented to place and/or person
Scores:
0-8 = indicates mild withdrawal
8-20 = indicates moderate withdrawal
20+ = indicates severe withdrawal
Observation of over 1000 amphetamine addicts indicates acute withdrawal usually lasts 7-15 days.
Physicians can use benzodiazepines and antipsychotics to modulate withdrawal symptoms
It's a way to determine how severe your amphetamine addiction is.
Ha ha ha.
Patient Name _____________________ BP _____ Pulse ____ Res _____Temp ______
AWS SCORE _____________________ Date _______
______________________________________
AGITATION-Observation
0 Normal activity
1 Somewhat more than normal activity
2
3
4 Moderately fidgety and restless
5
6
7 Paces back and forth or constantly thrashes about
_______________________________________
SWEATING Observation
0 No sweat visible
1 Palms moist
2
3
4 Beads of sweat on forehead
5
6
7 Drenching sweats
_______________________________________
ANXIETY-Ask “Do you feel nervous or
afraid?” Observation
0 No anxiety, calm and tranquil
1 Mildly anxious
2
3
4 Moderately anxious, defensive or guarded.
5
6
7 Severely anxious, equivalent to panic
_______________________________________
PARANOIA-Ask “Do you feel people are paying special attention to you? Do you feel anyone is out to get you or give you a hard time?
0 No paranoia
1 Mildly suspicious
2
3
4 Moderately paranoid or suspicious.
5
6
7 Severely paranoid with delusions of persecution
____________________________________________
CRAVING-Ask “Are you craving drugs or alcohol?
0 No craving
1 Mild or occasionally thinking about drug use
2
3
4 Moderate craving drug use throughout the day.
5
6
7 Severe can’t stop craving.
____________________________________________
DEPRESSION Ask “Do you feel sad or depressed? ”If yes, “On a scale of one to seven how depressed do you feel?”
0 None
1 Mild depression
2
3
4 Moderate depressed most of the day
5
6
7 Severe depressed all day every day.
____________________________________________
TACTILE DISTURBANCES-Ask “Have you had any itching or burning or do you feel bugs crawling on or under your skin?”
0 Not present
1 Mile itching burning or pins and needles
2
3 Moderate itching burning or pins and needles
4 Moderately severe hallucinations
5
6
7 Continuous hallucinations
____________________________________________
AUDITORY DISTURBANCES Ask “Do sounds seem too loud or harsh? Do they frighten you? Are you hearing things that are not there?”
0 Not present
1 Very mild harshness or ability to frighten
2 Mild harshness or ability to frighten
3 Moderate harshness or ability to frighten
4 Moderate hallucinations
5 Severe hallucinations
6 Extremely severe hallucinations
7 Continuous hallucinations
____________________________________________
VISUAL DISTURBANCES Ask “Does the light appear to be too bright? Does it hurt your eyes? Are you seeing things that are not there?”
0 Not present
1 Very mild sensitivity
2 Mild sensitivity
3 Moderate sensitivity
4 Moderate hallucinations
5 Severe hallucinations
6 Extremely severe hallucinations
7 Continuous hallucinations
____________________________________________
ORIENTATION Ask “What day is this? Where are you? Who am I? What is your name?”
0 Oriented
1 Uncertain about date
2 Disoriented by date by no more than 2 days
3 Disoriented to date by more than 2 days
4 Disoriented to place and/or person
Scores:
0-8 = indicates mild withdrawal
8-20 = indicates moderate withdrawal
20+ = indicates severe withdrawal
Observation of over 1000 amphetamine addicts indicates acute withdrawal usually lasts 7-15 days.
Physicians can use benzodiazepines and antipsychotics to modulate withdrawal symptoms
Friday, December 14, 2007
WEIRD SEXUAL THINGS EPISODE 2: Short men who have big dicks
I'm not sure if penis size really makes a difference to someone's personality. In fact, now that I've posed that very trite question....I'm almost certain it doesn't.
Sometimes someones penis size is not just hard to predict but the end result can be startling.
Carol Oh Bullshit told me a story once that if anybody else told me I wouldn't believe (if there is one thing Carol does is tell amazing stories without a hint of embellishment).
Carol worked as a hooker before she became a stripper. One of her first customers, like many people who visit sex workers....was disabled. To be more specific, he had no limbs. She said he was short and weird. I can't imagine what having no limbs would do for your personality. Anywho, she walked into the room to find him on the bed naked with a creepy cheshire grin and one of the biggest cocks she had ever seen sticking out of his legless crutch. He fucked her hard and said odd shit like "oh yeah, oh u fucking slut etc".
Carol admitted that she conversly repulsed and aroused by the experience at the same time.
I don't mean to disguise my point. My point is not "freaks can have big pensises" or "there could be a thing called retard fetish". It's not often the most unsuspecting, short men can have large cocks.
A landmark 1943 study on penis size (u would have thought they would have had more important things to think about during World War 2) showed that most people have a penis size somewhere between 5 and a half and 7 inches. There is actually very few people who have a dick that is outside this range. I reckon most dicks are about the same size, but then you do find the odd person who has one that is exceptionally small or exceptionally big. I asked my ex John what he thought about my dick and he told me "it is probably a bit bigger than average". The weird thing for me is that I like guys with kind of small dicks. I am really not into big dicks. Big dicks hurt, they are hard to swallow and usually make me feel self-conscious about my own cock.
Although really, really tiny dicks are a big turn off. I met a guy online when I was 20 whose erect dick was smaller than my little finger. He fucked me and it kind of felt like I was roughly wiping my arse. Then there was a guy who I used to be really jealous of. He was a high profile journalist, a well-known DJ and had even had a top 40 hit when he was a teenager. I bumped into him in the toilets at a nightclub earlier this year and apparently this guy has ACTUALLY HAD A CRUSH ON ME FOR AGES!!! So we did what all nice middle-class gay men do and went into a cubicle. He was a bit rough. He pulled down his pants. His face was all flushed and horny and what I saw was a tiny, tiny little dick. It was a stubby little thumb of a thing. So out of step with the rest of this guy. I felt like I'd found his secret shame. Like I'd looked in someone's bathroom cabinet and found lice shampoo. He was far too horny and drugged to b embarrassed, but he should have been. I wondered as I was sucking him off how much the size of his dick contributed to his over-achieving, charasmatic personality. And I wondered how far his achievements and his talents and his status went in nulling the pain and rejection of being a plain gay man with a small dick on the looks-obsesssed gay scene.
It's called schadenfraude I know......once I had a self-estreem crisis, today I would not swap lives or bodies with this guy even if God told me I could go to heaven without having to go to church ever again.
This guy was short and stocky. Kind of like my ex, John, who I was with for 6 years. He was really cute and little. I'd seen him around before I spoke to him, but only ever sitting down. I was shocked to c how little he actually was. But I was even more shocked to c him naked and his little d
Sometimes someones penis size is not just hard to predict but the end result can be startling.
Carol Oh Bullshit told me a story once that if anybody else told me I wouldn't believe (if there is one thing Carol does is tell amazing stories without a hint of embellishment).
Carol worked as a hooker before she became a stripper. One of her first customers, like many people who visit sex workers....was disabled. To be more specific, he had no limbs. She said he was short and weird. I can't imagine what having no limbs would do for your personality. Anywho, she walked into the room to find him on the bed naked with a creepy cheshire grin and one of the biggest cocks she had ever seen sticking out of his legless crutch. He fucked her hard and said odd shit like "oh yeah, oh u fucking slut etc".
Carol admitted that she conversly repulsed and aroused by the experience at the same time.
I don't mean to disguise my point. My point is not "freaks can have big pensises" or "there could be a thing called retard fetish". It's not often the most unsuspecting, short men can have large cocks.
A landmark 1943 study on penis size (u would have thought they would have had more important things to think about during World War 2) showed that most people have a penis size somewhere between 5 and a half and 7 inches. There is actually very few people who have a dick that is outside this range. I reckon most dicks are about the same size, but then you do find the odd person who has one that is exceptionally small or exceptionally big. I asked my ex John what he thought about my dick and he told me "it is probably a bit bigger than average". The weird thing for me is that I like guys with kind of small dicks. I am really not into big dicks. Big dicks hurt, they are hard to swallow and usually make me feel self-conscious about my own cock.
Although really, really tiny dicks are a big turn off. I met a guy online when I was 20 whose erect dick was smaller than my little finger. He fucked me and it kind of felt like I was roughly wiping my arse. Then there was a guy who I used to be really jealous of. He was a high profile journalist, a well-known DJ and had even had a top 40 hit when he was a teenager. I bumped into him in the toilets at a nightclub earlier this year and apparently this guy has ACTUALLY HAD A CRUSH ON ME FOR AGES!!! So we did what all nice middle-class gay men do and went into a cubicle. He was a bit rough. He pulled down his pants. His face was all flushed and horny and what I saw was a tiny, tiny little dick. It was a stubby little thumb of a thing. So out of step with the rest of this guy. I felt like I'd found his secret shame. Like I'd looked in someone's bathroom cabinet and found lice shampoo. He was far too horny and drugged to b embarrassed, but he should have been. I wondered as I was sucking him off how much the size of his dick contributed to his over-achieving, charasmatic personality. And I wondered how far his achievements and his talents and his status went in nulling the pain and rejection of being a plain gay man with a small dick on the looks-obsesssed gay scene.
It's called schadenfraude I know......once I had a self-estreem crisis, today I would not swap lives or bodies with this guy even if God told me I could go to heaven without having to go to church ever again.
This guy was short and stocky. Kind of like my ex, John, who I was with for 6 years. He was really cute and little. I'd seen him around before I spoke to him, but only ever sitting down. I was shocked to c how little he actually was. But I was even more shocked to c him naked and his little d
So I'm in Bundaberg.
Must be that feeling of my mum's menthols on my lungs again.
Or the boredom.
Or the heat.
Or the feeling that all of sudden it doesn't matter what colour headband I wear.
Or does iot, cause I'm not sure if the bush turkeys we feed every night or the Kangaroo who sleeps inside particularly give a shit.
I'm not sure that Geoff does either. He lives in a caravan on the edge of my parents property. He has an outside bathroom, including a toilet with no doors. Next to his van is a massive field of Pineapples, which I am told is riddled with snakes. Last time we went to the caravan a family of three Kangaroos stood and watched us as we giggled at the deshiveled state of his living conditions.
Last night it took me ages to work out that the minty smell coming into the lounge room was just the smell of the state forest next the house. I couldn't tell whether the scent dissappears at night or whether I'm already accustomed to Waterloo. Every night you can also hear the screams of the storm birds. Its fucking ferocious, like an angry tranny warning the other trannies to get off her stage. Dad told me the fly in around this time of year from Papua New Guinea and then fly back at the end of summer. I bet they see some shit, hey. But in any event, they are probably escaping their drug problems up north and fly down to dry out before getting stuck into yet another party season. Migration in both human and bird terms can be at times very hard to get your head around.
Dad told me today that he saw a wild dog crossing the road. He said it was a monster. As big as an alsation.
"If it attacked you, you'd b fucked" he said. "That's why whenever I go for bush walks now I always carry a gun,".
Yeah and that the fact that your suicidal half the time Dad.
Apparently some women told him the other day that she saw a pack of them crossing the road. They've been killing sheep and chooks by the dozen. I've heard stories of wild dogs killing "for fun", they kill a heap of farm animals and only eat some of them. It's the same with wild cats, sometimes they kill just because they want to. No wonder humans get along well with cats and dogs, we have so much in common.
No doubt the wild dogs have teared through their fear-share of wallabies and small roos and anything else that gets in their way. Ever since I heard the story of the woman who found an echidna that had been disembowelled by a feral cat I've had nightmares about native wildlife being killed by human-introduced pests. Its usually cats killing possums or small rodents. The last nightmare I had was a week ago, it was a Koala on the ground being ripped apart by a dog.
Dad says his going to go out later on his bike and look for the dogs. He thinks poisoning them is cruel, but shooting them is ok. I asked him if he had a second gun and he said yes. I might go with him later and whip some feral dog arse. An environmentalists with a gun? Maybe! Or perhaps we all need an excuse to kill things sometimes.
Must be that feeling of my mum's menthols on my lungs again.
Or the boredom.
Or the heat.
Or the feeling that all of sudden it doesn't matter what colour headband I wear.
Or does iot, cause I'm not sure if the bush turkeys we feed every night or the Kangaroo who sleeps inside particularly give a shit.
I'm not sure that Geoff does either. He lives in a caravan on the edge of my parents property. He has an outside bathroom, including a toilet with no doors. Next to his van is a massive field of Pineapples, which I am told is riddled with snakes. Last time we went to the caravan a family of three Kangaroos stood and watched us as we giggled at the deshiveled state of his living conditions.
Last night it took me ages to work out that the minty smell coming into the lounge room was just the smell of the state forest next the house. I couldn't tell whether the scent dissappears at night or whether I'm already accustomed to Waterloo. Every night you can also hear the screams of the storm birds. Its fucking ferocious, like an angry tranny warning the other trannies to get off her stage. Dad told me the fly in around this time of year from Papua New Guinea and then fly back at the end of summer. I bet they see some shit, hey. But in any event, they are probably escaping their drug problems up north and fly down to dry out before getting stuck into yet another party season. Migration in both human and bird terms can be at times very hard to get your head around.
Dad told me today that he saw a wild dog crossing the road. He said it was a monster. As big as an alsation.
"If it attacked you, you'd b fucked" he said. "That's why whenever I go for bush walks now I always carry a gun,".
Yeah and that the fact that your suicidal half the time Dad.
Apparently some women told him the other day that she saw a pack of them crossing the road. They've been killing sheep and chooks by the dozen. I've heard stories of wild dogs killing "for fun", they kill a heap of farm animals and only eat some of them. It's the same with wild cats, sometimes they kill just because they want to. No wonder humans get along well with cats and dogs, we have so much in common.
No doubt the wild dogs have teared through their fear-share of wallabies and small roos and anything else that gets in their way. Ever since I heard the story of the woman who found an echidna that had been disembowelled by a feral cat I've had nightmares about native wildlife being killed by human-introduced pests. Its usually cats killing possums or small rodents. The last nightmare I had was a week ago, it was a Koala on the ground being ripped apart by a dog.
Dad says his going to go out later on his bike and look for the dogs. He thinks poisoning them is cruel, but shooting them is ok. I asked him if he had a second gun and he said yes. I might go with him later and whip some feral dog arse. An environmentalists with a gun? Maybe! Or perhaps we all need an excuse to kill things sometimes.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Oh ok so the creative genuis in me has decided that another series might be worth it called
WEIRD SEXUAL THINGS
Today's episode is called
QUEENS WHO WANT TO DOMINATE U
My friend Neil drew this to my attention. He is like 40 and really butch. He used to be married and he's got three kids. Carol says he is ghoulish and yes he is rather rough as guts. One night he picked up this guy who was really camp. He was a dancer in his early 30s. Gay as fuck right. I thought he liked me, but he liked Neil instead. Neil said this was really flattering cause "i'm really hot" (he later qualified this by saying in a "boy next door" kid of way). Anyway he went home with this guy and the next day rang me with the details.
"He got me in the bedroom and started ordering me around" he said.
"He was like, suck this and do this and fuck this. He was like a straight guy"
I said that perhaps a bit more like a straight girl, like a dominatrix would be more suitable. Because the guy was practically like a girl.
The thought of it didn't sit well with me. Neil the butch bastard getting ordered around the bedroom by a queen. And being fucked like a bitch. Ha ha.
I was with someone for six years who liked being fucked like a bitch and was my bitch. But yes, then it happened to me...domintrax queens who like the idea of roughing a up a guy bigger or at least more masculine than what they are. Why is this suprising or even subversive??? I guess its not really. Gay sex shouldn't have to be another heterosexuality (or the heterosexual matrix as some Queer Room types would call it), but even still it is rather curious. It took me ages to work out what made me tick sexually. I wasnt sure if I liked men or women or either for a long time. Then it occured to me, as I said it in church one day
"I LIKE FUCKING GUYS LIKE THEY ARE WOMEN!!!!!!!"
y'know, take that cock...suck my cock....etc.
Which now as a single man has helped me work exactly the kind of guys I like. Young, skinny, queeny guys, who wear pink t-shirts and eyeliner.
Me - man
You - bitch
My friend Bree was asked what love life meant to me as a masculine gay men.
"having a bitch" I said.
"Quite traditional then?" she replied.
I guess so.
So this year Ive slept with and dated with a whole lot of 17-23 year campy hairdresser types. Oh yeah and a tranny. There was some fucking hot ones in there. 3 of them were models and I love it when people tell me my new boyfriend "is really up themselves". Ha ha.
And I also slept with two female strippers. At the same time.
Anyway the problem with that shit (the last comment withstanding) is that these little cunts still have dicks and insist on wanting them stimulated. Selfish. In a word, selfish.
I dated this one guy Matt. He'd just turned 18. He was girly as knickers. Sissy boy they call it in gay porn. He said he'd done modelling work for versace and once worked at a pole dancer at a gay nightclub. When I was out with him straight girls would constantly tell us how hot WE were and then CRACK ONTO HIM. One day a girl came up to us and said to me "I can tell your the man in the relationship". If only she knew.
For the first few days I didn't have sex with him cause I was too drug fucked. One day he was at my house and ordered me to strip naked.
He laid in bed looking at me with his cute little doll pixie face and floppy blonde emo fringe.
"I like watching people get naked" he said in a sexy way.
I tried to sex it up a bit.
"Don't try to make it sexy, just pretend I'm not here" he said.
Ok...so clearly he was establishing dominance in the sexual relationship here. I had to strip naked and do it in a way he liked.
He then called me back to bed, held me down and wanked all over me. He came on my tits. How degrading. Like I was a fucking porn star girl or something.
I didn't cum. I didn't like it. It really didn't do it for me being dominated by a punny little 18 year old boy or anyone for that matter. I wonder what the turn is for him. I know its old-fashioned but you would think if he liked being the boss why he wouldn't himself just get a bitch for himself.
Cause I aint no-one's bitch.
We had maybe 3 more of these little sexual encounters and the same shit happened. He would get on top of me, dominate me, cum all over me and then just get up when he'd finish. Once he left and then came back and said "hurry the fuck up (to cum), I want to go out soon". Oh yeah and then one day we were having a little argument and during it he pulled out his erect cock and slapped me across the face with it. "Don't" I said really coyly. Then we preceded to continue the argument, while mutually masturbating. Perfect, I thought....now I do the old "abuse them till they cum" trick I'm so good at. Anyway, we were kind of laughing during all of this and then I tried putting my hands around his neck. This had worked a fucking treat many times before. With some queens all u have to do is strangle them and tell them they are dirty whoare and they blow straight away. Him????
"Get your fucking hands off my neck" he said.
"You and your weird fucking fetishes".
Oh my god. I' m being judged here. That is so not a turn on.
And I didn't cum. And yes, he did. Again.
And I suspect he had sex the night before with someone else.
The last night I was with, he was being an arrogant little fucker. "Can u get me this? Do that? James (this guy who was coming over that night) takes me to the movies for $1 ra ra ra."
Anyway, he came into the bedroom, shut the door and said "I love you, babe". (babe????)
Then preceded to sit at the end of the bed and try to finger me.
"Fuck off" I said.
"I don't do that shit".
He told me a bit later how he liked to fuck chicks every now and then when he left like. But unlike me he said he wouldn't fuck a drag queen "because its too confusing".
Watever. Grow some balls.
I broke up with him because he invited me over and then also invited over a past-root and told me he would b going to this guys house that night.
"Were just friends now" he said.
James walked in - wearing - get this - eyeliner and little short shorts. He was Matt's bitch. Hilarious. Humiliating for me, but yes hilarious at the same time. I just thought James (had he been better looking) would normally b the kind of guy I fuck. Then suddenly I felt like a Queen in competition with another Queen for a "man". Before tormenting the poor cunts for two hours and breaking up with Matt and leaving without thinking I said "Tell James he is wearing too much fake tan and too much make up".
Oh fuck, Matt youve turned me into a bitchy Queen. Uve cut off my balls and very nearly turned me into a bitch.
So beware of the Queen who wants to dominate u. It can do your fucking head in.
And just because someone is pretty, doesn't mean the sex will feel good.
WEIRD SEXUAL THINGS
Today's episode is called
QUEENS WHO WANT TO DOMINATE U
My friend Neil drew this to my attention. He is like 40 and really butch. He used to be married and he's got three kids. Carol says he is ghoulish and yes he is rather rough as guts. One night he picked up this guy who was really camp. He was a dancer in his early 30s. Gay as fuck right. I thought he liked me, but he liked Neil instead. Neil said this was really flattering cause "i'm really hot" (he later qualified this by saying in a "boy next door" kid of way). Anyway he went home with this guy and the next day rang me with the details.
"He got me in the bedroom and started ordering me around" he said.
"He was like, suck this and do this and fuck this. He was like a straight guy"
I said that perhaps a bit more like a straight girl, like a dominatrix would be more suitable. Because the guy was practically like a girl.
The thought of it didn't sit well with me. Neil the butch bastard getting ordered around the bedroom by a queen. And being fucked like a bitch. Ha ha.
I was with someone for six years who liked being fucked like a bitch and was my bitch. But yes, then it happened to me...domintrax queens who like the idea of roughing a up a guy bigger or at least more masculine than what they are. Why is this suprising or even subversive??? I guess its not really. Gay sex shouldn't have to be another heterosexuality (or the heterosexual matrix as some Queer Room types would call it), but even still it is rather curious. It took me ages to work out what made me tick sexually. I wasnt sure if I liked men or women or either for a long time. Then it occured to me, as I said it in church one day
"I LIKE FUCKING GUYS LIKE THEY ARE WOMEN!!!!!!!"
y'know, take that cock...suck my cock....etc.
Which now as a single man has helped me work exactly the kind of guys I like. Young, skinny, queeny guys, who wear pink t-shirts and eyeliner.
Me - man
You - bitch
My friend Bree was asked what love life meant to me as a masculine gay men.
"having a bitch" I said.
"Quite traditional then?" she replied.
I guess so.
So this year Ive slept with and dated with a whole lot of 17-23 year campy hairdresser types. Oh yeah and a tranny. There was some fucking hot ones in there. 3 of them were models and I love it when people tell me my new boyfriend "is really up themselves". Ha ha.
And I also slept with two female strippers. At the same time.
Anyway the problem with that shit (the last comment withstanding) is that these little cunts still have dicks and insist on wanting them stimulated. Selfish. In a word, selfish.
I dated this one guy Matt. He'd just turned 18. He was girly as knickers. Sissy boy they call it in gay porn. He said he'd done modelling work for versace and once worked at a pole dancer at a gay nightclub. When I was out with him straight girls would constantly tell us how hot WE were and then CRACK ONTO HIM. One day a girl came up to us and said to me "I can tell your the man in the relationship". If only she knew.
For the first few days I didn't have sex with him cause I was too drug fucked. One day he was at my house and ordered me to strip naked.
He laid in bed looking at me with his cute little doll pixie face and floppy blonde emo fringe.
"I like watching people get naked" he said in a sexy way.
I tried to sex it up a bit.
"Don't try to make it sexy, just pretend I'm not here" he said.
Ok...so clearly he was establishing dominance in the sexual relationship here. I had to strip naked and do it in a way he liked.
He then called me back to bed, held me down and wanked all over me. He came on my tits. How degrading. Like I was a fucking porn star girl or something.
I didn't cum. I didn't like it. It really didn't do it for me being dominated by a punny little 18 year old boy or anyone for that matter. I wonder what the turn is for him. I know its old-fashioned but you would think if he liked being the boss why he wouldn't himself just get a bitch for himself.
Cause I aint no-one's bitch.
We had maybe 3 more of these little sexual encounters and the same shit happened. He would get on top of me, dominate me, cum all over me and then just get up when he'd finish. Once he left and then came back and said "hurry the fuck up (to cum), I want to go out soon". Oh yeah and then one day we were having a little argument and during it he pulled out his erect cock and slapped me across the face with it. "Don't" I said really coyly. Then we preceded to continue the argument, while mutually masturbating. Perfect, I thought....now I do the old "abuse them till they cum" trick I'm so good at. Anyway, we were kind of laughing during all of this and then I tried putting my hands around his neck. This had worked a fucking treat many times before. With some queens all u have to do is strangle them and tell them they are dirty whoare and they blow straight away. Him????
"Get your fucking hands off my neck" he said.
"You and your weird fucking fetishes".
Oh my god. I' m being judged here. That is so not a turn on.
And I didn't cum. And yes, he did. Again.
And I suspect he had sex the night before with someone else.
The last night I was with, he was being an arrogant little fucker. "Can u get me this? Do that? James (this guy who was coming over that night) takes me to the movies for $1 ra ra ra."
Anyway, he came into the bedroom, shut the door and said "I love you, babe". (babe????)
Then preceded to sit at the end of the bed and try to finger me.
"Fuck off" I said.
"I don't do that shit".
He told me a bit later how he liked to fuck chicks every now and then when he left like. But unlike me he said he wouldn't fuck a drag queen "because its too confusing".
Watever. Grow some balls.
I broke up with him because he invited me over and then also invited over a past-root and told me he would b going to this guys house that night.
"Were just friends now" he said.
James walked in - wearing - get this - eyeliner and little short shorts. He was Matt's bitch. Hilarious. Humiliating for me, but yes hilarious at the same time. I just thought James (had he been better looking) would normally b the kind of guy I fuck. Then suddenly I felt like a Queen in competition with another Queen for a "man". Before tormenting the poor cunts for two hours and breaking up with Matt and leaving without thinking I said "Tell James he is wearing too much fake tan and too much make up".
Oh fuck, Matt youve turned me into a bitchy Queen. Uve cut off my balls and very nearly turned me into a bitch.
So beware of the Queen who wants to dominate u. It can do your fucking head in.
And just because someone is pretty, doesn't mean the sex will feel good.
Oh shit. I forget to say what happened with Carol the other night.
Ok, so often when we criticise other people....it's sheer projection. We hate something about them because it's something we hate about ourselves.
Of course that's not to say it's not in them as well. But sometimes the lines blurr.
AND THAT"S WHAT STARTS
THE FRIENDSHIP FILES - person 1 - Oh Carol, fucking bullshit u fucking stripper bitch
Carol is fucking nuts. U would kind of guess it when u met her straight away. Actually maybe not the extent to which she is crazy. Perhaps desperate slut might be the first impression you would get.
I first met Carol in a PR class at RMIT. She was one of the first people I noticed. She wore heavy make-up and boots up to her knees. Her fashion struck me as outdated and overdone for a tafe class. She said she was a door-bitch at a nightclub. Trash-bag, now I get it. Mutton dressed as lamb, she was....she was trying to dress prettier than she really was. Fuck man, she could really be a dirty old poof if she tried. ha. When I finally spoke to her. Not because I particuluarly liked her, but hated her less than the 18 year old girls in the class. She told me she lied about being a door-bitch and was in-fact a stripper. She then went on to tell me about a fat, ugly girl she met in the class named Tess. I went to her house. I met her boyfriend who was a radio jock and reasonably obese. He walked into the house eating KFC and then made a smart-arse comment about Tess, who Carol had brought back to the house 3 days before. Carol told her boyfriend that I was only 22 and had already been paid to write for a couple of different magazines. I didn't think it was a big deal, neither did he. She farted really offly and loudly. Then told me I pick my nose in public, so I had no right to complain.
The more we hung out together at RMIT, the more we became the token class misfits. A manic gay guy with mental health problems and a 32 year old stripper neither of whom dressed very well. I'm sure in some edgy town somewhere, we would b PR whiz-kids...but not here. At the time, long and dangling ear-rings were in fashion. All the 18 year old girls were wearing them. We concocted a theory one-day that the dangly ear-wear was code for "i have a secret penis". There was one goody little too shoes who was such a moisty bitch, I drew a picture of her naked with dangling earings and a penis. When the girl sat down behind us, Carol tapped her on the shoulder and said "Luke has drawn a picture of you". I couldn't fucking believe it. The girl smiled and said "show me". When I did show it to her, her faced dropped and asked the fairly logical question "how does having dangling earrings mean I have a penis". I left the class soon after that, it felt like high school all over again. A bunch of prissy little conservative air-heads thinking I was some kind of sexual pervert. Which I am. Ha. Deal with it.
Ok, so often when we criticise other people....it's sheer projection. We hate something about them because it's something we hate about ourselves.
Of course that's not to say it's not in them as well. But sometimes the lines blurr.
AND THAT"S WHAT STARTS
THE FRIENDSHIP FILES - person 1 - Oh Carol, fucking bullshit u fucking stripper bitch
Carol is fucking nuts. U would kind of guess it when u met her straight away. Actually maybe not the extent to which she is crazy. Perhaps desperate slut might be the first impression you would get.
I first met Carol in a PR class at RMIT. She was one of the first people I noticed. She wore heavy make-up and boots up to her knees. Her fashion struck me as outdated and overdone for a tafe class. She said she was a door-bitch at a nightclub. Trash-bag, now I get it. Mutton dressed as lamb, she was....she was trying to dress prettier than she really was. Fuck man, she could really be a dirty old poof if she tried. ha. When I finally spoke to her. Not because I particuluarly liked her, but hated her less than the 18 year old girls in the class. She told me she lied about being a door-bitch and was in-fact a stripper. She then went on to tell me about a fat, ugly girl she met in the class named Tess. I went to her house. I met her boyfriend who was a radio jock and reasonably obese. He walked into the house eating KFC and then made a smart-arse comment about Tess, who Carol had brought back to the house 3 days before. Carol told her boyfriend that I was only 22 and had already been paid to write for a couple of different magazines. I didn't think it was a big deal, neither did he. She farted really offly and loudly. Then told me I pick my nose in public, so I had no right to complain.
The more we hung out together at RMIT, the more we became the token class misfits. A manic gay guy with mental health problems and a 32 year old stripper neither of whom dressed very well. I'm sure in some edgy town somewhere, we would b PR whiz-kids...but not here. At the time, long and dangling ear-rings were in fashion. All the 18 year old girls were wearing them. We concocted a theory one-day that the dangly ear-wear was code for "i have a secret penis". There was one goody little too shoes who was such a moisty bitch, I drew a picture of her naked with dangling earings and a penis. When the girl sat down behind us, Carol tapped her on the shoulder and said "Luke has drawn a picture of you". I couldn't fucking believe it. The girl smiled and said "show me". When I did show it to her, her faced dropped and asked the fairly logical question "how does having dangling earrings mean I have a penis". I left the class soon after that, it felt like high school all over again. A bunch of prissy little conservative air-heads thinking I was some kind of sexual pervert. Which I am. Ha. Deal with it.
Monday, December 10, 2007
This entry is a bit like a "behind the scenes; movie magic" of the making of this blog.
As I'm writing this blog I'm flicking back and forward between myspace, looking for me.
And reading my last entries which seem really trite and melo-dramatic. So this one, I reckon must surely be a lot better. Ha! I need to learn to work with the talents Ive got. And that sounds like fool-talk ma, cause I can take drugs and imagine I am really ten times better than what u are.
Speaking of which I'm online to distract myself from the fact I feel sick. Yes, how hardcore am I, I am actually sick from drug withdrawl.
Its somewhere between a migraine and a panic attack. As if the drugs I took have started to go off at the crevice of my skull and neck. I knew it was going to b hard. The spot in Belgrave I go to get a sense of whats happening in my life told me sickly grey skies ahead. And I knew it. I have to b honest tho. As much as I feel physically sick. I'm not craving drugs. I'm jack of being off my guts.
As I'm writing this blog I'm flicking back and forward between myspace, looking for me.
And reading my last entries which seem really trite and melo-dramatic. So this one, I reckon must surely be a lot better. Ha! I need to learn to work with the talents Ive got. And that sounds like fool-talk ma, cause I can take drugs and imagine I am really ten times better than what u are.
Speaking of which I'm online to distract myself from the fact I feel sick. Yes, how hardcore am I, I am actually sick from drug withdrawl.
Its somewhere between a migraine and a panic attack. As if the drugs I took have started to go off at the crevice of my skull and neck. I knew it was going to b hard. The spot in Belgrave I go to get a sense of whats happening in my life told me sickly grey skies ahead. And I knew it. I have to b honest tho. As much as I feel physically sick. I'm not craving drugs. I'm jack of being off my guts.
Fuck I know Ive been procrasinating.
It's all those summer TV schedules they are so fucking informative.
And the juxtapositions are startling. Just this evening I watched America's Next Top Model where the eliminated was told she was far too pudgy to be a model and then flicked over to a documentary about infant rape in South Africa. Apparently people who were raped as infants often grow up with a range of psychological problems, including the need to be Tyra Banks.
Things make me angry. I'll b frank. If I'm not walking around wondering why TEENAGER X has not messaged me back, I'm normally thinking about something someone has said that has pissed me right off. My Sister is getting on my nerves. As usual. She is off in la la land. And I know she is doing a lot for me right now and I couldn't get by without her, but I think that gives her certain degree of power over me and she knows it. I also don't talk about my problems with her, cause in my opinion she has lead a sheltered life and has limited life experience. She also has serious problems with the way I was raised. There's aren't purely philosophical issues she has either. She reckons I was spoiled and had it so much easier than what she did from our parents. I could do watever I wanted, got watever I wanted and didn't have to contribute to chores and stuff. Its not that I am saying that isn't entirely true, its just that she brings that up everytime I start talking about my problems.
OMG TANYA I USED TO BE A HOOKER.
OMG LUKE U SO SHOULD HAVE BEEN MADE TO VACUUM WHEN WE GROWING UP.
Bling emotive reasoning never did anything for anyone. Including middle-class junkie fags like me. But for fucks sake I will wash the dishes from now on if you promise my life will start to come together soon.
And if dusting means getting rid of $16,ooo debt and if throwing away my designer jeans means I wont feel like fucking idiot teenage boys anymore - then I think that's a sacrifice....I'm not willing to make. Ha ha. Suck shit. I got a colour TV and u didn't. Now I'm a drug addict. Do u feel better now? I think u do, but that doesn't excuse your massive leap in logic that the two are somehow linked.
Oh and PS, i,m extra pissed-off at the moment cause I'm trying to withdraw from a couple of weeks of being off my head virtually everyday.
It's all those summer TV schedules they are so fucking informative.
And the juxtapositions are startling. Just this evening I watched America's Next Top Model where the eliminated was told she was far too pudgy to be a model and then flicked over to a documentary about infant rape in South Africa. Apparently people who were raped as infants often grow up with a range of psychological problems, including the need to be Tyra Banks.
Things make me angry. I'll b frank. If I'm not walking around wondering why TEENAGER X has not messaged me back, I'm normally thinking about something someone has said that has pissed me right off. My Sister is getting on my nerves. As usual. She is off in la la land. And I know she is doing a lot for me right now and I couldn't get by without her, but I think that gives her certain degree of power over me and she knows it. I also don't talk about my problems with her, cause in my opinion she has lead a sheltered life and has limited life experience. She also has serious problems with the way I was raised. There's aren't purely philosophical issues she has either. She reckons I was spoiled and had it so much easier than what she did from our parents. I could do watever I wanted, got watever I wanted and didn't have to contribute to chores and stuff. Its not that I am saying that isn't entirely true, its just that she brings that up everytime I start talking about my problems.
OMG TANYA I USED TO BE A HOOKER.
OMG LUKE U SO SHOULD HAVE BEEN MADE TO VACUUM WHEN WE GROWING UP.
Bling emotive reasoning never did anything for anyone. Including middle-class junkie fags like me. But for fucks sake I will wash the dishes from now on if you promise my life will start to come together soon.
And if dusting means getting rid of $16,ooo debt and if throwing away my designer jeans means I wont feel like fucking idiot teenage boys anymore - then I think that's a sacrifice....I'm not willing to make. Ha ha. Suck shit. I got a colour TV and u didn't. Now I'm a drug addict. Do u feel better now? I think u do, but that doesn't excuse your massive leap in logic that the two are somehow linked.
Oh and PS, i,m extra pissed-off at the moment cause I'm trying to withdraw from a couple of weeks of being off my head virtually everyday.
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