Ist herea w eezers ongf ort hat? – 0.029

Dylan felt a change coming on a little while ago, and I’m feeling one right now. It could be anything, really, and I’d probably welcome it. Not with open arms, but arms undecided. Slightly opened but not opened far enough to attract attention. I would accept the change if it approached me directly, but would probably not have the confidence to call out its name across a room full of people. But still, if this change comes. If it comes right up to me, calls me by my name, and asks me to follow. Well, I guess I’ll just do what it says. What other choice do I have?

But now, at this moment, I am finished. No more exams, no more high school. No more waiting for the days to pass, hoping that something better is coming, that a change is coming. And maybe I’m just writing this because the effects of a single beer are clouding my judgement. A single beer; yet still enough to cloud my judgement; still enough to make me feel happy. Make me feel free. I guess I’m just a lightweight. A lightweight who should be training. Training for the future and training for Schoolies. Chugging beers and sipping bottles of straight vodka. And yet, right at this moment, I feel the effects of a single beer. It feels euphoric. It feels real.

Next Friday I’ll have disappeared, hopefully. Disappeared into the mists of alcohol and promiscuous sex. I feel this change calling my name. And for once, I am willing to meet it with arms open, embracing it in its totality. Fuck it, right? Fuck it all. All the women. The whole world. You know why? Because I am finished. Because I am free.

But I should go now. Move on to greater things. Ha, greater things. That’s not going to happen. Fat chance, buddy. I’ve enrolled in a course with little to no career opportunities. Little to no chance of a future. But, tough titties, right? I guess I’ll be just another loser without a paycheck. Just another bum in normal person’s clothing. But, that’s if I get in at all. This uncertainty is swallowing me up. I did not prepare enough. I feel my exams were fucked. I was fucked in my attempts to prepare for them, at the very least. So, I’ll probably fail. I’ll probably get a job. I’ll probably meet a nice girl and lead a mediocre death until I die of a heart attack or something equally average. But fuck me, right?

I honestly don’t care.

In A Sense The Song We Sang Was The Song For This – 0.028

Things have been too monotonous lately, so it’s time to reflect. Dates have gone hazy with time, but memories remain nonetheless.

The left leg of the tracksuit pants that clothe my legs is a torn mess of melted fabric. A reminder of that night when, brain cloudy from alcohol, I watched him with that can of expensive fuel he had ‘borrowed’ from work. He squirted a trail from the fire, across the dirt, over my shoes and up my leg. A blazing tail of fire erupted on the fabric, my skin enveloped by sudden warmth. Us, both laughing as I leapt around, shaking my leg like a madman, hair singing beneath.

Once darkness returned, my shoelaces now crusted and crumbling, firefights gave way to adventures. Us three boys piled into a small rusty jeep, going down back roads and crashing into half-formed trees that snapped nimbly beneath our weight. Him, with his camera phone, recording our yelling, the jeep launched headlong into a pothole. It didn’t matter. We were young, fearless and stupid.

And that girl he called a ‘mole’, we drove to her driveway, aware she was away on holidays, the jeep taking out guideposts, both plastic and wooden, on our way. Her mailbox, so bent when we hit it, its flap gaping open like the back of Gnade’s figurative skull, a package still housed within. So we double-tap the motherfucker, this time the flap slamming shut, and I complement the driver on being so courteous as to close the mailbox. And so, we just turn around, laughing so damn hard – Gassius Maximus.

But we were out of fuel. One convinced us to keep driving, convinced us we could make it. I agreed, stupid with adrenaline. And so, in the middle of nowhere we broke down, us so angry with that One’s insistence, but too happy to give a shit. With no other choice, we walked for hours. Him watching porn on that One’s phone, as we rang that Farmer Kid and abused his voicemail, asking why the fuck he wasn’t awake at 3 in the morning. We broke into a shed, where music played to scare off rats. We filled up water bottles with fuel from water pumps, stole a funnel, and may have accidentally broke the radio, but we didn’t stay around long enough to find out. So we were all bye-bye-birdie, walking hours back to the jeep, singing Airplanes at the night sky, as shooting stars rained from above.

The jeep jerked forwards and stopped. Then again, and again and again. We finally got it started and drove back to His house, breaking down once more only metres from his gate. So we traded thanks and goodbyes, and admitted that despite being tired and sore legged, it had still been a pretty fucking interesting night. And I drove home all alone, Crystal Castles in my ears, with dawn just on the horizon.

Is There A Song For That? – 0.027

I just came to a sudden realisation – maybe it wasn’t the best idea to not listen in all of those classes. Maybe it wasn’t the best thing for me to see the weekly work as a suggestion rather than a requirement. Maybe. But still, I don’t regret not listening. I don’t regret not doing the work. I know that I won’t change. I probably could. But I doubt I’ll try.

***

Yesterday I thought about the future and all of its possibilities. I now have something to move towards. I now have direction. At least a little bit, anyway.

Is There An Item Of Stationary That Loosely Relates To This Situation? – 0.026

Exam today – 3 hours long; 1 hour waiting for it to finish. I spent the time engraving my ruler with the lines from songs that were stuck in my head.

“Fuck what you heard like a dick inside an alarm clock”

“Insect ligaments: I’m the bee’s knees”

Probably not the most productive way to have spent my time.

Childish Gambino, you sly muthafucka.

Is There An Injection For That? – 0.025

I feel some obligation to update this. This boyfriend of hers, now sans stripper, possibly has a case of Chlamydia. The stripper? Nah, I don’t think they fucked, and to be honest, I’m not entirely sure she exists. The test results haven’t returned, but the STD was hers, that girl on the bus. Sucking dick, taking cock, like a champ.

Another obligation – someone told me something today. Apparently the principal of our school was asking around to see who else may have had relations with her… it looks like we may have an epidemic on our hands. Everybody, check your genitals

Is There A Formatting Option For This – 0.024

Formatting can’t handle this. Oh well, I guess it remains on my harddrive.

Is There A 5-Page List Of Revelations For This? – 0.023

The most time and effort I’ve ever put into anything was writing These Are The Revelations: Book One. It took such an incredibly long time for all the pieces to fall into place. I want to post it just so that the work wasn’t for nothing. But context needs to be understood. TATR is not me. It is sometimes. It is everything I see. These often aren’t my feelings. These often aren’t my situations. But I have seen most of these happen. Most of these have some basis in reality. It makes no sense anyway. Just five pages of nonsense. But fuck me, that nonsense took along time to come together.

I hope this is just the beginning. I hope more arrives soon.

Is There A 90s Australian Children’s Fantasy Television Series For That? – 0.022

There I sit alone in my home. Feet propped up on the coffee table, watching television. Inch after inch of cinematic glory. I change the channel, and – crack. My childhood is playing on the screen. Not exactly. But still, those old familiar images. Crappy production values. Hammy acting. Spellbinder. I look around. I look at the beer in my hand. I look over at the kitchen where a small speaker is erupting with complex rhythms. Nothing could feel more perfect. Pure simplicity.

Is There A Childish Gambino Song For That? – 0.021

I listened to some hip hop. They said the word “nigger” a lot. I didn’t feel guilty. I’m all blackened up.

 

culdesac

Is There A Song For That? – 0.020

A one-sided conversation. She was cheated on by her boyfriend and now he is dating a stripper. I should feel some level of sympathy but I can’t. It’s just too strange. It’s just too false; I mean, it has to be. So I half-listen to her words; her telling me she’s the cousin of my friend, though her words are rotten with falsities and misinformation.

I feel some obligation to update this. This boyfriend of hers, now sans stripper, possibly has a case of Chlamydia. The stripper? Nah, I don’t think they fucked, and to be honest, I’m not entirely sure she exists. The test results haven’t returned, but the STD was hers, that girl on the bus. Sucking dick, taking cock, like a champ.

And another point – not the cousin of my friend. Just the former foster child of my friend’s cousin’s girlfriend. She now hangs out in refuges doing god-knows-what. Sucking dick, taking cock, I presume.

Is There A Song For That? – 0.019

I found this post that I forgot to post… so let it be posted

Tuesday the 20th [of June, I presume]

School is go: let boredom commence. It’s this tedious revival that I feel pressing down on my shoulders once again. Pushing me down into a seat where I must sit for six hours feinting interest in irrelevant teachings. And now, here I am. Where did the last 2 weeks go? I’m not sure. Did anything substantial happen? Not really. I mean, I can count the interesting things that occurred on both hands. There was the goon gathering, the 18^th, the Deb… fuck my ass, what else?

I vaguely remember a conversation. A confirmed occurrence. The 18^th – my mind a blur of Goon, Skittle’s Vodka and Southern Comfort; a cocktail of bliss. Burnt fingertips. Shoes crusted over with dust and goon. Eyes held under a liquid glaze. A monologue. Trying to convince someone to let me convince someone. To call them up and let me convince them that here was where it’s at. To risk it. To take the leap. Even now I think it would have worked. If only I’d known their number, instead of just spelling their name out on the phone’s buttons repeatedly. I know it would have worked. He didn’t though.

Flash-forward to today [the 21^st], whip-pan over to where I was seated on the bus. A one-sided conversation. She was cheated on by her boyfriend and now he is dating a stripper. I should feel some level of sympathy but I can’t. It’s just too strange. It’s just too false; I mean, it has to be. So I half-listen to her words; her telling me she’s the cousin of my friend, though her words are rotten with falsities and misinformation. So I just listen. One ear attentive to her. The other, lost in a blizzard of melodies – acoustic guitar, synth and vocals. And when the ride comes to a halt I am glad it is over. I just hope this will not be a daily occurrence.

And smash-cut to the past – a story told in split-screen. One half – me on my way home from the deb. My ears thumping with the beats of Muscles, my brain and body relieved. Driving slow down back-roads. Almost lost, but clinging to common sense. Strangely freeing. But that second half of the screen – once again driving home. This time though there is a strange longing in my gut. Wanting some excitement. Needing something new. A crave I can’t sustain. I choose comfort over satisfaction. Strangely fine.

Is There A Song For That? – 0.018

It has been a couple of months now, and nothing has changed. By this stage I am aware I am writing to myself, but who gives a fuck? Risks fell through as I realised the images that I had created in my mind where constructed from mere falsities. I knew that as I lay the foundations, but who gives a fuck? That fantasy disintegrated on a warm Monday on foreign land, somewhere to the West. Words were exchanged, followed by silence. Hope evaporating. But this is all irrelevant to everything, and everything is irrelevant to it all.

*****

There was a weekend bathed in procrastination. We watched those episodes that made our own lives seem so dull and worthless. It was hard not to long for something more. More dramatic. More interesting. And despite this, it never once crossed my mind that my life isn’t written by a team of writers. There are no re-shoots or take-twos. Everything is just improv. So we devoured their stories as replacements for our own. We lived the cliff’s notes of their lives.

*****

That’s all for now, but I’ll get bored in five minutes and make my return.

*****

Weezer doesn’t seem to relate… pity.

Is There A Weezer Song For That? – 0.017

Surrenderland: You Could Quit Your Jobs and Run Away Like You Used to, Back When You Did Things Just Because, and Because it Felt Good to Run Away, and Because You Didn’t Worry so Much Like You Do Now… just Because and Leave the Assholes Behind and Fuck ‘em Anyway, They Don’t Mean Shit.

I feel satisfied. I feel warm. The play button back in it’s usual position [a simple click] – warmth consuming my soul. That same warmth you feel watching Into The Wild for the first time. Or when you first begin to read On The Road. Run Hide Retreat Surrender – that same warmth. Hymn California – Warmth. Honeyslides – warmth. All just warmth.

That warmth – pull the cap down over your face, shielding it from the sun. Walking down a lonely tar road somewhere in the West. Your thumb held out. Everything peaceful. Every simple. Everything bliss – consumed by warmth.

There is no Weezer song for that – Gnades got it covered.

Is There A Weezer Song For That? – 0.016

I’m not sure whether it was a slip of the mind, a gutsy move, or just Bath messing with my head again, but I did something I hadn’t expected to. Consequences – good? bad? For the short-term – neither. Not that it matters really anyway. Just the fact that I had tricked myself into doing something unexpected impresses me. For now – that will suffice. Consequences will appear in time, surely. But just the possibility of a positive result keeps me optimistic. What am I talking about? It doesn’t matter. I’m not going for specificity. Details will only weigh me down.

Is There A Weezer Song For That? – 0.015

Today just felt forced. Everything. Every fumbled word. Every stumbled step.  A ruptured aneurysm of a day, leaking its fluids out into my tissue; swallowing my system and overriding my thought-track. Everything I said to anyone came out wrong - my mind over-calculating to the point, that when it came time for speech only the simplest words could be formed. Hey. Good. Bye. Fuck. And this felt all too familiar.

Bath bleeding into my system, I found peace in howls. My face pressed against the cool glass, I watched the two lines of paint entwine, and then separate, before breaking apart altogether. Again and again and again. Monotonous repetition to finish off the weekdays.