I played tennis with Geoff.

Poor cunt. He lives in a caravan, his face ripped all out of shape by acne scars, he's never had a girlfriend and he's got a wicked buck to his teeth.

Nature can be cruel. Lucky Geoff doesnt have the IQ to realise this.

He has no sympathy for me on the tennis court. Bring on those bad fucking genes I say. I beat him 60, 61, 62. I always thrash him. Ive always been good at humiliating people, at finding their sore points and weaknesses, at kicking their arse.

Ive never been quite so good with relationships. Instead of winning in a relationship you have to co-operate. The prize is to be loved and love back. Strategy can be utterly useless. Its incredibly disempowering when you finally come to the conclusion that you cant really control the way somebody feels about you - no matter how good your game plan.

My ex told me he stopped loving me when I started putting all my energy into my career. Fair enough, I did tell him once that I valued career over all other things - including love. Part of me wonders though whether or not actions ever really make a difference, if there is a time for those feelings and a time when they just wear-out - no matter what you do.

After I killed Geoff on the court I started to feel sick again. I took two Zoloft - a double dose. I made Spaghetti Bolognaise for everyone.

"I'm going to Brisbane for the weekend" I told Mum.

"No, your not u owe me money, U or I cant afford it"

"Well I'll go back to Melbourne then"

Poor Mum, I was being deliberately difficult.

"Uve got responsibilities here Luke"

She was being fair.

But at that moment all I could feel was a strange little twinge of despair.

My feelings were, for no apparent reason, out of control. I was burning up inside. I was hating myself again. I pictured myself hanging from a rafter and my Mum exploding in tears as she found me. Where the fuck did all this come from? It made no sense at all. I played with the kitchen knives and couldnt bring myself to cut. My choices were limited, I took another half zoloft and washed my face. I hated my face at the moment. I hated myself. I applied the 7-in-1 Olay anti-ageing cream, expensive cream Id shoplifted the day before.

After a particuluarly brutal dose of bad summer TV all I could think about was getting the fuck out of bundaberg. The little echidna of anxiety in my stomach was making me twitch and shake. I couldnt sit still. I wallowed. I wanted Keegan. Someone. I looked in the mirror, I'd quickly switched from self-loathing to narcissism.

'I need someone. Look at me Im gorgeous, I deserve someone. I dont deserve to be trapped up here in hick land'

I sat on the couch - smeltered in the hear - a dozen frogs looked on from the rafters. Im back here again, I thought, drowning in my own neurotic bullshit.