Tuesdays With Mar-z
Paris Hilton's phonebook was dropped via email. At the time Philippoussis had already changed his number and Fred Durst's message bank was completely full. I'm sure they were all abusive messages of how much he sucks - and I smile with the knowledge that others had passed on my message.
D was seeking help in finding an anger management class, and being the insensitive fool that I am, I told her that she doesn't need it. The Japanese set lunch was average and the company, as always, was highly entertaining. I took comfort in knowing that I'm not the only person out there who thinks that growing up is scary and that Desperate Housewives is a kick-arse show. I am yet to establish the link the link between the two. Hold your breath because I'm set out to prove that there is no such thing as coincidence. Maybe later.
Dilated pupils and cigarettes as we sit around in the lounge room. I draw the curtains shut so that King Street is spared my killer moves on the dance floor. I stare at the painting in hopes of making her dance. She's buxom, you say? Well, even more reason to make her dance, I say! The Jameison's is smooth as 11PM rolls around. Scissor Sisters and Krafty Kuts (alliteration sounds, so good) keeps us bobbing our heads and I love that sensation when you can just feel the music pulsating through you like you were an amplifier. Your disclaimer was funny and audacious, and I admire how you can think that way. We agree that everybody earmarks their achievements to another's to some extent. I hope your new theory on dating works in practice. But back to more pressing matters - that packet of Marlboro Lights is empty.
Fifty-five minutes later and I know I'm pushing the boundaries of Vodafone's talk-cap. Thanks for the chat, L, and excuse my Tagalog - it's pathetic. I must learn to roll my 'R's' and say more than 'OK' in a funny way. I'll be armed with interesting stories as soon as I start living.
My room is alive with the Lost In Translation soundtrack and it feels almost sinful to be taking something so divine and perfect to bed.
Change Is
I've got a pocket full of change.
Change makes a distinct sound as I walk the streets; a high-pitched reminder as each piece of silver and gold shuffle and collide.
Change is unashamedly obtrusive, embossing a unique shape that is impressed to distort the streamlined leg of my pants.
Change is the product of boozy nights, irrational purchases and weekday coffee's.
Change is weighty, and should not be so easily discarded or disregarded.
Change is uncompromising and definite in times of heads or tails.
I wish I could always convert my notes to change.
I've got a pocket full of change.
Change makes a distinct sound as I walk the streets; a high-pitched reminder as each piece of silver and gold shuffle and collide.
Change is unashamedly obtrusive, embossing a unique shape that is impressed to distort the streamlined leg of my pants.
Change is the product of boozy nights, irrational purchases and weekday coffee's.
Change is weighty, and should not be so easily discarded or disregarded.
Change is uncompromising and definite in times of heads or tails.
I wish I could always convert my notes to change.
Batman
When asked "can you name me any of the actors that have played Batman?" I will answer Bruce Wayne - because it's Sunday, and we're by the Harbour watching the sun go down, drinking Asahi and laughing at my stupidity.
When asked "can you name me any of the actors that have played Batman?" I will answer Bruce Wayne - because it's Sunday, and we're by the Harbour watching the sun go down, drinking Asahi and laughing at my stupidity.
Crossing
He crossed the street with little care, until he saw a lovely brunette on the other side of the road. His pace slowed as his heartbeat quickened, and he found himself no longer walking - he was strutting. The pedestrian strip had turned into a catwalk and you could almost hear John Lennon's - Woman in the background, as his focus narrowed (runway vision) to see only her. And it was nothing short of divine intervention when she acknowledged his look with a restrained smile. For him, the world stood still on this sunny Monday morning. There was nothing else but them - every bystander and every building and every piece of rubbish flying in the wind was frozen in their moment. Metres from her, he shyly looked down to the ground and slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. He could see an incredulous look on her face, and her right arm extending, pointing at the oncoming traffic that was about to end his fantasy, and/or life.
He crossed the street with little care, until he saw a lovely brunette on the other side of the road. His pace slowed as his heartbeat quickened, and he found himself no longer walking - he was strutting. The pedestrian strip had turned into a catwalk and you could almost hear John Lennon's - Woman in the background, as his focus narrowed (runway vision) to see only her. And it was nothing short of divine intervention when she acknowledged his look with a restrained smile. For him, the world stood still on this sunny Monday morning. There was nothing else but them - every bystander and every building and every piece of rubbish flying in the wind was frozen in their moment. Metres from her, he shyly looked down to the ground and slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. He could see an incredulous look on her face, and her right arm extending, pointing at the oncoming traffic that was about to end his fantasy, and/or life.
AA 10 LZ - White Mitsubishi Mirage
The lights were bright green as we crossed the intersection of Burwood Road and the Hume Highway. The bus in front began to slow down.
Thud. A dull noise that was produced when a greyhound met with the fibreglass bumper of a Mirage.
Yelp. A high-pitched wail that was cried when the greyhound found itself being hit and forced back five metres.
Screech. A sharp and unpleasant tone that came from the wheels of the car as it fled the scene.
Just as quickly as it happened, shock and sorrow turned into rage and a short-lived chase was born.
By the traffic lights, eye contact was engaged.
You ran over that dog and you did nothing to avoid it or aid it - like it was a cardboard box, or a cheating ex-boyfriend. Have you no heart? Try sitting upright when you drive. Turn down that burnt CD your cousin gave you and you might hear what's going on outside your little world. Chrome hub caps, muffler tips and fake nails don't excuse you from anything apart from being a loser. I'm not staring at you because of your looks - you're not beautiful, despite what that guy said at the bar - because you know he just wanted to avoid paying $150 at the brothel...
And in the midst of my eye-contact speech, a look of disbelief was drawn across my face - she signalled a quasi-drag race, with a wink.
Fuck You.
I turned into a side street to let my thoughts and emotions settle - road rage was not the answer.
Thirteen minutes and two cigarettes later, resolution was at hand.
The dog survived and I hope he'll be looked after. I hope that someone who reads this blog will tell me where this bitch lives so I can do to her car what she did to that dog.
The lights were bright green as we crossed the intersection of Burwood Road and the Hume Highway. The bus in front began to slow down.
Thud. A dull noise that was produced when a greyhound met with the fibreglass bumper of a Mirage.
Yelp. A high-pitched wail that was cried when the greyhound found itself being hit and forced back five metres.
Screech. A sharp and unpleasant tone that came from the wheels of the car as it fled the scene.
Just as quickly as it happened, shock and sorrow turned into rage and a short-lived chase was born.
By the traffic lights, eye contact was engaged.
You ran over that dog and you did nothing to avoid it or aid it - like it was a cardboard box, or a cheating ex-boyfriend. Have you no heart? Try sitting upright when you drive. Turn down that burnt CD your cousin gave you and you might hear what's going on outside your little world. Chrome hub caps, muffler tips and fake nails don't excuse you from anything apart from being a loser. I'm not staring at you because of your looks - you're not beautiful, despite what that guy said at the bar - because you know he just wanted to avoid paying $150 at the brothel...
And in the midst of my eye-contact speech, a look of disbelief was drawn across my face - she signalled a quasi-drag race, with a wink.
Fuck You.
I turned into a side street to let my thoughts and emotions settle - road rage was not the answer.
Thirteen minutes and two cigarettes later, resolution was at hand.
The dog survived and I hope he'll be looked after. I hope that someone who reads this blog will tell me where this bitch lives so I can do to her car what she did to that dog.
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