swansong

this isn't working out. too much negative energy.

try here.

all in a night's work

time to get quasi-loaded.
saturday was interesting. a brief rundown:

tale of the cowgirls
weather girls - it's raining men

it was a balmy night in melbourne, and i had to head off to my favourite consultant's birthday. the party had a western theme so, obviously, it just had to be held in a boatshed on the banks of the Yarra. After smashing my shoulder on a metal bannister (i have a lovely little scar building up off that one...) , i managed to down a couple of beers, watch as the fire brigade decided to turn up, hang out with the birthday (cow)girls, dance with them to it's raining men, take a few fotos of the group, say hello to some guy i went to school with, say goodbye to everyone, slip on a train and head over to newmarket...

poisonous bushes
ella - imagine my frustration

...where my dear friend L was having his birthday drinks. now L occasionally moonlights as a drag queen by the name of Oleeander ('cos she's a poisonous bush, sweetie') - but Miss Olly was nowhere to be seen. instead, i caught up with my melbourne gay boi posse (aka. the 'mgbp'), had a few drinks, bumped into an old friend, took a few photos and managed to introduce a couple of drag queens sans makeup to mame. as you do. of course, that meant only one thing: the peel.

crazy ass pool 'playaz'
michael sembello - maniac

at the peel, the party was joined by the rest of the mgbp. given we have not spent time together as a whole group for almost a year, of course it was fabulous.

until L's sis T decided that i had to play pool with her. which, stupidly, i agreed to.

all of a sudden we were playing against this strange little old man. he was in full '70s get up: the tight grey pants, the white shirt open almost to the waist, the overtanned skin, the white-gray hair in a floppy 'do. and i think he honestly spoke five words of english.

he kept doing this thing where he tried to show off how much of a hustler he was. except he wasn't. he'd spend about five minutes lining up shot, doing that whole 'fake shot' thing where you rub the cue up and down along your fingers for ages. still, he fucked up more shots than me, but somehow his team won. which was great for me - there's nothing more disconcerting than having someone tell you that you have two shots by giving you the good ole two-finger salute (and we ain't talkin 'v for victory' kidz) and then repeating it until you basically scream 'i get it - two shots!' at them.

fuckin weirdass bastard.

so i went off for a drink, then danced for a little bit til i got bored (it seriously took five minutes) then headed back to the pool room, where the mgbp was seated.

immediately, crazyass pool playa walks up to me and starts gesturing in his hyperactive way that i'm playing this game, that i have no choice, and that this time i was playing on his team. fucking T - she copped it later.

somehow, we won; but i feigned drunkenness and said i couldn't possibly play another game. instead, i ran off to the dancefloor to a catchup with old friend A and a free line of speed.

so far, so strange.

to market, to market...
armand van helden - my my my

So L decided we were all heading to the market. the sun was rising at that point, and luckily i had taken my bag with me, cos all of a sudden everyone was utterly green with lust for the pair of sunnies i had just put on.

market was ok for a couple of hours, but at some point i tried to start a conversation with a coupla guys who were totally out of it. which i wouldn't normally do, except that one of them was wearing a full suit with dirty cross-trainers. when i tried to ask him why he was wearing them, he started some long boring tirade, that next thing i know, i had woken from a five minute nap.

heh. five minute man.

time to head home.

we be dreamin

i caught up with an old friend last night. we decided to go off to pick up all the stuff i have lying around.

first stop was my great aunt's farm. except she'd sold it and it had been turned into a motel. we booked in under a false name, making sure to steal the maid's keys.

finally, we found the room where all my old clothes were stored. We literally had 10 seconds before someone came in. thank fuck it was long enough for me to rip through the wardrobes and stuff it all into my big bag (which was under one of the closets).

We ran out through the front, a fish and chip shop, where there was this girl who looked like Mena Suvari.

Next stop was a chance to visit a few old friends in this little country town but we couldn't find anything there.

stupid thought

oh minnie driver, whoever told you you could get away with a black leather catsuit?

karen walker

why does barbara streisand dislike minnie driver so much?

20 days to Sydney

song of the moment: new order - slow jam

i'm sick of being the bitter, twisted brat who lets the vicious cycles continue for the sake of convenience.

i realise that my posts are increasingly repetitive but bear with me: they're the only place where i can honestly vent my emotions. i mean, my friends understand that i'm not happy; but their general response is to either 'ride it out' or that 'things will get better.'

except they're not, at least not while i'm here.

you have to understand that i haven't always been this angry twit before you reach that point where you get that this is torture for me, taking responsibility for the decisions i've made.

yes, i chose to come back to melbourne almost two years ago, knowing full well it meant dealing with issues i hadn't had the strength to overcome before i left in the first place.

yes, i chose to live at my parents' house, knowing full well i wouldn't be able to deal with la famille for an extended period of time.

i also chose to attempt every possible avenue for overcoming those issues, and to attempt to develop better relationships with family. every possible avenue short of patricide or escape to try to break the power games and vicious manipulations that constitute life in my family.

i'm the first to admit that the problems are much bigger than i could ever fix on my own: other family members really need to realise what they do and how they do it before anything happens. seems like they're more lost than me in that dark clubhouse - cept they can't even remember what their friends look like.

what does it take to get the world to change if you don't like the way it is?

groping

ever had the experience of being in a crowded bar or nightclub, a busy venue, looking for someone? i'm there. now.

what i usually do when something like that happens is stop to catch my breath. sit down. maybe chat with some people. that way, if i can't find my friend, i've made a new one (or four).

except right now, there's no place to sit down. and the dj is playing shit music. sides, there are always twelve more things to do before i can leave the club.

last night, a case in point:

after a brief conversation with a potential employer, i had a short window of time to send my CV off to him. so i headed home.

cept, everyone all of a sudden decided they really needed my advice or help or whatever. my sister couldn't get something working with an image she was working in photoshop, my mum was having her fortnightly breakdown. my brother decided this was the moment he had to tell me about his fears about moving to london or something and dad desperatelyhad to have a conversation about some banal topic.

despite the fact i was quite clearly needing to do some work of my own, none of them let off til i told them to all get fucked.

which of course, would make everything my fault.

i can't describe how humiliating it is to feel all of fifteen again, nine years after the fact.

why can't people get that sometimes i'm just not that drugfucked little party kid constantly on the dancefloor? don't they understand that i need my own sit down time?

ready or not, i'm leaving the club soon.

try try again

i've had better days. i've been the star of many plays.

reading t's blog, i feel like my life is missing something.

i guess it started last night. my friend r, who has the same birthday as me... no it was earlier than that.

shit, i've been reading way too much winterson lately.

oh yeah, it could have been the family dinner on tuesday. no, that's ground well covered over.

or could it be the world's most pathetic text message, which i still keep in my phone for stupid reasons?

one of my oldest and dearest friends decided to tell me she wasn't coming to my birthday drinks last weekend - at 1am on the night of the drinks - with the following message:

Dearest Bads33d. Happy happy birthday. Hope you're having a wonderful time. Ciao :-)

What the fuck was that?

(did i mention she didn't even bother to call me on my actual birthday?)

back to mine

song of the moment: christina & missy car wash

I'm feeling better than I have been for a while. I actually feel half human, and am contemplating whether or not to head out in a little bit for a touch of the boogie.

This last week has been fun. i've gone out a little bit, caught up with a different set of friends every night (except sunday and monday) and survived the whole family thing.

Plus my CV is looking majorly kickass, and my options re: houses are looking amazing.

I've finished a report I've been working on for a year and a half.

I managed to impress a friend whose work I idolise, which is pretty cool, too. I caught up with him when I decided to ditch an industry lecture on wednesday, and we were chatting away about all the stuff that's happened since i saw him last (about a year ago). He was telling me about his travels, I was telling him about the whole move thing. Either way, it was a good convo, and I kinda sensed a little urst-y thing going on. Which is very cool - he is an incredibly hot boi, but I've never got that impression from him before.

Anyway, back to life as I don't want to know it.

I’m a lonely little petunia in an onion patch...

I turn 24 today.

I got offered something of a surprising offer for a position at the company I work for last week. I actually spent most of the last five days thinking about it, and the same response keeps welling up inside me.

No.

No, because the position is too unstable, too much just an extension of what I’m already doing, and not the chance to work in a new, different area.

No, because my home life is too unstable, making me incapable of creating enough perspective to really get a bearing on my life.

No, because I’m not happy in Melbourne.

So why am I smiling and wanting more from this city right now?

Bring it on.

no sex thankyou, i've had my fill of sangria

day count: 2 sleeps to my birthday. 30 sleeps to sydney.

three nights of celebrating is getting to me.

1. i went to my friend S's for a dinner party. somehow, after the huge pitcher of sangriawe all drank, i managed to sleep in til 10am the next morning. i got given way too much shift from my CRM's at work. so this is what happens when you don't have a life...

2. i went to catch up with my fave temp consultant, A, for a few drinks after work on friday - without realising it was her birthday. after turning up at 11am for work, i was so busy that i didn't have lunch. not having dinner, either, meant that all the drinks we had REALLY got to my head. so...

3. i woke up saturday afternoon still drunk. i vomited in the shower, spent the next eight hours making myself presentable, and then headed off to my birthday drinks with such a jelly stomach i can't describe. oy vey.

birthday drinks were good, but i'm sick of people who say they're coming and don't turn up. oh well... their loss. :P

so i'm not feeling very human at the end of the weekend. at least i have yet another week of dreary administration work to look forward to.

another day less

so my computer is working again. typically, it was some hardware error.

anyway, it's been another typical melbourne day.
i woke up to find there was no hot water - my sis had decided to wash all her clothes while everyone else was having showers. so, cold showers and no shave for me.

after getting much pollen blown through my hayfever ridden eyes, i got to work feeling nauseous. then i found that there was only filing, letter typing and envelope stuffing to do all day.

i hid out in the little shopping centre across the road from the office for lunch, but kept having annoying colleagues walk up to ask me stupid questions now that they've *finally* clicked i'm one of the 'gay ones.'

i got home to hear my sister whinge about the day she's had and how i'm not helping because i don't want to watch who wants to millionaire, and my brother to tell me how much i need to take other people's feelings into consideration.

and people wonder why i want to leave melbourne?!

fucking up

song of the moment: rem - bang & blame

my computer is dead, so i'm using my mum's.
john howard is PM for another three years.
oh, and my cd player is playing up.

all i need is for some abusive fucker to come in and screw with my head.

my head hurts.

wishlist

• space
  

interesting thought

time for a touch more poststructuralist french philosophy. i quote directly:

If there were only perception, pure permeability to breaching, there would be no breaches. We would be written, but nothing would be recorded; no writing would be produced, retained, repeated as legibility. But pure perception does not exist: we are written only as we write, by the agency within us which always already keeps watch over perception, be it internal or external. The "subject" of writing does not exist if we mean by that some sovereign solitude of the author...The subject of writing is a system of relations between strata...

turning the body without organs (pt ii): immanent transgressions to the brooksian universe

song of the moment: keep it gay (from The Producers)

this week has been hectic. and i haven't really done a huge amount.

first tho, i must say that i have a set a date for RTS (aka Return To Sydney): Nov 16 I fly out. Now all i need is some decent movalists, a plane ticket and a job. pretty straightforward, one would think.

thankfully the fabulous MsK is organising househunting - provided i can find a decent job asap.

yet again, i digress. i wanted to talk about deleuze and the body without organs.

it's taken me a while to begin to understand deleuze. my honours thesis was steeped in his work, and i have felt like i'm only beginning to get some of his concepts only recently. one of the problems with my thesis was that it was more about a dynamics of space and spatial relations rather than about space (which is what i defined it as) - the difference may seem minuscule, but it's a world of difference within academia.

one of the things i've come to interpret of his work is that deleuze is about immanence and dynamics more than mechanics and transcendence. big words that i don't really understand; i can only contemplate their meanings in different contexts. i guess the example he gives of the body without organs works nicely to explain this: essentially it's a body that folds itself up into a purely immanent presence. the point is that it is no longer existing as a series of interconnected organs, of mechanical parts; instead it's a presence that insists its presence only on a certain plane. ok, now my head is getting boggled.

obviously, this is some overly philosophical concept that is useful only in thinking through a tiny amount of work - but i like it. it interests me. makes me wonder what i'm doing, sitting in some darkened room in suburban melbourne and waiting for the right time to leave.

in the meantime, i get to do crazy things like spending a whole thursday night getting drunk at st jerome's with friends to celebrate one of them leaving their job, and like seeing The Producers in melbourne. if you are in australia, and have a chance to go see it one night, i highly recommend it. it's funny thinking that Mel Brooks is already talking about doing a remake, and it would be great to see Matthew Broderick and Nathan Lane in the lead roles. Though having the joke of the gay male lead in a plot which satirises the gay male lead of Broadway productions would be too good an opportunity for him to miss, no doubt.

i'm leaving soon, is that enough?

turning the body without organs (pt i): organic discussion and body shopping

sat'dee arvo, i was shopping in smith street for tracksuit pants. yeah, i know. weird.

smith st, when i first lived in fitzroy, was junkie heaven. the only people wearing tracksuit pants were the same ones who 'really need five bucks for food.' it sucked, but you'd watch as they got cash off someone and walk the two metres to the closest dealer for their next hit. the most disgusting displays were where you'd see some junkie parent totally ignore the hungry cries of their children for a little balloon full of horse.

anyway, the police muscled in, and now the heroin trade happily progresses in the undercover areas of council flats in fitzroy, northcote and collingwood - right next to kids' playgrounds, and clearly fucking up the lives of clean, but poor, residents in these blocks. all for the sake of latte-drinking vegan enviro wannabes and pretentious fitzroyalty like i (used to) be.

ain't life grand.

i digress. i was shopping for gym clothes, cos i've promised my best friend GGB that i'd buy him and myself an outfit or two so we can train together when i head back to sin city. knowing that he would never want to be seen in public slightly unkempt, this is no easy task - and the cost of cute sweatware being what it is, i had to head to the factory outlets down the end of smith st.

on my way between a bonds outlet (two pairs of trackies for bads33d, none for GGB) and the adidas outlet, i bumped into an ex-housemate of mine, the fabulous Miss M. Miss M was having a lazy luncheon, and i joined her for a round of discussion around her masters thesis topic.

Discussing sado-masochism, deleuzian bodies without organs, and kathy acker is all fun and games, and it rammed home to me that i really miss the research and learning aspect of humanities study. i want to do my phd quicker!


anyway, sex and the city is on in a minute. this discussion must continue.

frustration

rachel stevens some girls

typical. i'm obviously interested in someone, cause i'm waiting for the phone call that never comes.

and i have no wheels on a friday night. could go out, but everyone else seems too busy or too exhausted or in need of a lift for us to head out.

and all i can think is, why won't the fucker call?

Good Cover, Bad Cover

I have had this desperate need to hear a particular cover version Tori Amos did of Leonard Cohen's Famous Blue Raincoat. I only found it today, hidden in a pile of Tori compilations some friends have burnt for me over the years.

For some reason, this somewhat melancholic tune always makes me feel better when I hear it, and especially this particular version. It also makes me wonder what the rules are for a decent cover version. I reckon they go something like this:

• Be respectful enough to pay proper tribute to the mood of the original
• Take enough license to make the song your own: fit it to your voice, your genre, your stylings
• Don't forget to keep an ear out for the story of the song

Some covers I like

• Beck - Diamond Dogs (Bowie)
• Cyndi Lauper - La vie en rose
• kd Lang - Theme from the valley of the dolls
• Natacha Atlas - From Russia with Love
• Chrissie Hynd - Live and Let Die
• Bjork - Can't Help Lovin' That Man of Mine

There are probably more, but I can't think of them now, probably many of them done by men.

My Brother the Pimp (Pt II): My Lover the Lost Case

song of the moment: Debbie Harry's I want that man

So i did end up going to the whole setup scenario.

Scarily enough, the guy was cute, articulate, and interested in me. This was not meant to happen.

So he invites me along to a night out on the town, telling me he'll be at the market at 1 on Saturday night, and that it'll be a great chance to meet some of his friends. K, fair nuff, I'll turn up.

Course, being the good gay boy i am, i turn up half an hour late. Next thing, I have a decent bump of k in my nose and half a pill down my throat, am snogging him up on the mezzanine, and we're organising to head back to mine. Funny, it's been a while since I could write something like that: my parents were at the holiday house for the weekend so it was nice to host for a change.

Obviously my sis had the same idea, cos she turned up with her boy about twenty mins later.

Anyway, after however many abortive attempts at drugfucked sex, we headed back to the club. I mention this, because he'd deliberately asked me what I was doing for the rest of the day, and asked that we spend it together.

When we get to the club, though, he basically disappears on me. And it's been a long time since I've done this, but, well, I was seriously drugfucked and I waited on him to head back toward me. Which didn't happen. Again and again.

After three hours of this shit, I finally managed to pin him down. He tells me his friends are po'd he hasn't spent any time with them for a while, and this is the last weekend for a while he can do it, blah blah blah.

Fair enough. I totally understand wanting to spend quality time with your buddies, am a huge fan of it myself. But why ask me to come along, when I'd clearly get in the way?!?

So frustrated and confused. Don't kno what to do with this boy, not even sure if I want to see him again. On the other hand, he's cute, interesting and interested in me. I just don't know what to do with this boy.

Admittedly, that may be making my life a bit too Bacharach for my liking.

MTC v Sweet FA

I went to an MTC play with my friend/fuckbuddy B on Thursday night. It was a production of Take me Out, a baseball drama about a professional player who comes out. B's boyf/husband is a set designer for MTC (sorry, i forget there are non-Melburnians reading: Melbourne Theatre Company) so B gets free tix for all their shows.

By the way, who says queer isn't the new black?

Now, i confess: I hate MTC productions. I always walk away from them disappointed, with a good idea of how I could fix up lighting, set design, performances, direction - mise en scene in general, i suppose. So, typically, B and I discussed faults with the production during the interval.

Watching the first act, I came up with a theory of breathing in drama. I think that any theatre production needs to occasionally give the audience a chance to digest what has happened in the previous scene(s) . I don't mean something like the interval - it's more in the pauses when set changes occur, when the stage is dark and uninhabited, when there is silence; then the audience can catch their breath.

The problem with this production, I argued, was that the set design was so tech-savvy (items came on stage via a pulley system of some sort) and fast-paced that the audience didn't get to breathe. B had seen this particular production a few weeks earlier, and pointed out that the very sort of breaks I had been talking about had happened were included in the earlier night, but the play was just as shit.

In the second half, it hit me: the performances were overdone, granted, but it was the pacing of the play that was fucked. B agreed. It ended up coming off as a piece still being workshopped, with no one quite sure how to bring it together.

After the show, I told B about my Monday night. My friend FA had brought together an ensemble of friends and fellow-performance-students at Bar Open in Fitzroy to create a symphony of vignette-y performance pieces. And it worked: he started off with this satirical spoken word performance of a diatribe against the metrosexual, had all sorts of different pieces then finished with a quasi-drag performance of Aretha Franklin's Dr Feelgood, which I'd never heard before. It was breathtaking.

Here was this ridiculously studenty production which actually worked: it flowed nicely (despite having one stupidly useless skit-ish performance in the middle) , (most of) the actors seemed to find the right style of performance for their respective moments, and the upstairs performance space of Bar Open seemed to be utilised well. Which goes to show even the very sweet FA is better than MTC.

my brother the pimp (pt i)

song of the moment: stuck in a moment you can't get out of by u2

so i have this thing against being set up. by anyone.

my brother left this message on my phone just before work yesterday, saying he needed to speak to me ASAP. it sounded kinda urgent.

so i ring him, to see what's happening.

for the last coupla months, every so often he's been telling me how i need to meet this guy from his work. my response, as usual, has been to tell him to bring him round.

The big emergency, it turns out, is that this guy from work is finishing tonight. and he really wants to meet me at his work drinks. let me think about this:

This is wrong because

1) I'm sick of str8 ppl presuming that because i'm gay and single, and the other guy is gay & single we'll click immediately. i mean, there is a limit to my slut status...

2) what has my bro been telling this guy?

3) why on earth would i even consider this under normal conditions?

4) what on earth are normal conditions for me??

i said ok. now what?

so long, farewell, auf wedessehn

this email was just posted on one of the egroups i'm on. i thought it was brilliant. sides, i love chicago and cabaret:

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Apparently Fred Ebb, lyricist of "Cabaret" and Chicago" has died. I am
reminded me of something that happened to me in New York.
Once I was waiting for a light on Sheridan Square behind two punk
kids--one
with chartreuse hair and a pink T shirt, the other with pink hair and a
chartreuse shirt--and one was comforting the other--saying, "Remember,
life is a
cabaret"--and the other stopped sniveling and said, "Yeah. Yeah" and
smiled
bravely--and then asked, "By the way, what IS a cabaret?"
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Dream Life

I've flown up to Brisbane for the first time, to visit my family's new home. They've bought another house in the city, which for some reason resembles a giant sandstone pier, with Movieworld jostling against the city on the shoreline.

The house is gigantic, as you'd expect in Brisvegas. The foyer is like the one in The Nanny. I walk up this excessively vast staircase, to find three bedrooms and a tiny little door, which I presume goes off to the bathroom. I know immediately that they've completely forgotten I exist, and haven't even bothered to set aside some room for me.

I walk up to my brother, who has installed the door from his bedroom back in Melbourne. He's trying to get rid of the stickers on his door with a fork or something. I point out to him that he should use the steam feature on the iron, and proceed to show him how.

The iron works a lot better than i expected - it gets rid of the paint on the door, to reveal beautiful redwood panelling underneath. He's shocked, and I'm happy.

Then I wake up, feeling fucking fantastic for the first time in months. Don't ask why.

Cleaning up elephant shit

track of the moment: theme from the valley of the dolls

There's a running joke in my family, and it's not that funny. My dad is like a big elephant, who clumsily stumbles around, and we're like the little guys at the circus/zoo who follow him around, sweeping up his shit.

Except that lately, it feels like i'm the whole family's elephant shit-sweeper. it ain't pretty.

To add insult, despite all the stuff i do for the fam, i'm the one who's accused of being the egotistical one. The funny thing is, the way the individual members of my family work, I end up looking like the meek wallflower in comparison to their bloated heads. Sometimes, i feel like walking around with a nice big pin to prick them with.

Oh, the joys of living with famiglia...

unwanted limbs and remote control cars

i've been having the weirdest dreams lately.

i walk into work one day, and one of my coworkers points out to me that I have mismatching shoes. I look down, and realise i have one pair of shoes on, but because i don't own two pairs of the same kind, i'm wearing another shoe on my third leg, which has a second left foot.

in the other, which i had last night, i'm having to drive my mum's dinky little accord back home. but i'm also driving, via remote control, my dad's mitsubishi. anyway, a cop pulls me over, because i'm using the wheel on the passenger side (a la driving schools' cars).

feel like organising everyone else's life, anyone? why do i feel like a third wheel?

Mini-er Mes and Friendly Fruits

track of the moment: the crystal method - born too slow (Eric Morillo Mix)

forgive the self-indulgence of this entry - it's been a while since i sat down to type. it's gonna take a while to get back in the swing.

i guess this would be my first blog entry. i used to have something similar a few years ago when i lived in syd. to bring you up to speed, life's a bit weird having been back in melbourne for a year and a half.

i'm still living with my family, which i swore i would never do beyond a couple of months.

i'm working a boring admin job for a finance company, in which I get to file or make excel spreadsheets all day.

oh and i'm in this weird space *yet again* where every guy i meet is either in an open relationship or else screwed up royally or just plain stupid.

and now i've released some pent up aggression about the whole sitch, there are some good things going on in my life.

i can actually afford to save, and still have money set aside to buy a few things here and there. which also means that i can get back to sydney by the end of the year.

i have really cool friends who, tho i may not see them as often as i'd like, are there for each other.

i dunno, it's all a bit confusing at the mo.

like last night.

i went to M's birthday drinks. and well M is not exactly a close friend. really nice guy when you can pin him down, but has this insane need to put people down. his gf P is like that too, so i wasn't expecting much from the two of them.

but it was cool. it turns out all their friends who turned up know how to keep them in check, mellow them enough for a good night out.

so we ended up barhopping through the city, before i headed over to meccanoid@public office. the theme was 'corporate whores' so i slipped into a nasty shirt and tie combo (lilac pinstripe shirt, bright red tie) and continued on to find myself being accosted by the best friend of an ex-housemate. turns out the ex-h had sent him over to tell me not to speak to him. i mean, that was lame.

anyway, the party gave me a chance to catch up with S & A, two good friends i lurve. and they pulled up to the task, making sure i was fine for drugs, drinks and dance. oh and the occasional good convo.

A and i have the same name, so he keeps trying to call me 'mini me.' cept, he's like 5 foot nothing, and i point that out to him every time we see each other (being 6'3 has its advantages i guess). so we end up having this stupid routine, like 'no, you're the mini-me.' you get the drift - it's not funny to anyone else but us.

whatever else, i ended up having a good time nonetheless, and that was cool.

fuck that was a lame entry.

note to self:
write when i'm not coming down or feeling uninspired. or all three.