La Revolución

I look at things I have a lot, and ask myself "What is this for?"

The realistic replica lightsabers I had...what were they for? Fun and novelty every now and then, but not much else. So I sold them.

The crazy rams horn beach cruiser I had when I lived in Fremantle (Fuck- did that actually happen?!), What was that for? Dead weight- I own 13 bicycles! So I left it by the side of the road, and watched someone throw it in their car and race off.

I still own 11 guitars. What are they for? I really don't need that many for anything. So they should go. That will be harder to allow myself to do.

And this blog. It's here...I write in it. It's archived by the National Library in Canberra because it has some kind of artistic cultural value for Australia, apparently. Heaven help us! But what's it for, what does it do?

I have wanted to delete it (not that that would actually make it not exist any more (see archiving), and start again, anonymously, so I can post my thoughts and not have to deal with the repercussions of the opinions of people I know. So I could write without judgement or fear of reprisal (not that these things have stopped me from writing anything yet, but it's the thought that counts).

I definitely feel abandoned and sooky because I used to have a massive following, and now I don't know if anyone reads it any more. Like Tears for Fears, without the hit songs. Every now and then someone posts a comment, and it shocks me. It's like coming home to find a total stranger in your lounge room, explaining to you how you've wired up the quadrophonic stereo system incorrectly.

Unexpected.

So, I'm not sure why I'm in here again, typing my thoughts while I wait for my rice to cook. While my girlfriend is away in Sydney, competing in the top 10 of X Factor on TV. When I have a day off tomorrow, so I'm gonna do my thing all night...to have me time.

But I'm here, and you're here, so I guess let's get started.

A lot of people ask me about my blog, some of them I know, some have been strangers at parties who have read me. Once I had someone call out my nom de plume "knifey" from a passing car, which I thought was incredibly impressive (he should be a police officer or something!) Impressive because I had no idea who he was.

And the thing they ask most is "Are your stories real?"

So let me kick this off by saying:

THIS STORY IS A TRUE STORY. IT HAPPENED TO ME. IT'S LEGIT.

The scene:

I had moved to capital city, after being fired from my job making gourmet cheese, for having no initiative. I can't be mad- they were right, I had none. And the cheese was delicious, so I took my hat off to them (and my rubber boots, apron, and overalls), and moved to the city.

I worked in a Mexican Restaurant. Those that know me know that those 2 words placed together are like gastro porn. I love Mexican.

It was an ok job (I got one meal a shift out of it, but I could have eaten a lot more than that.) One of the waitresses was an intoxicating skinny and pale model called Sarah, who liked Nick Cave and Einturzende Neubauten, and wore patchouli. She used to flirt mercilessly with me, and that made the time pass a lot faster. I wonder where she is now? She smelled amazing. For a goth.

I had been working late, double shift, and I was walking the loooong walk home. I lived in the ghetto (which was actually really nice, but don't tell the media that), and was passing an alleyway when I saw the figure of a girl kneeling in the gutter sobbing.

I rushed to her side and asked her what was wrong, she turned to look at me and she whispered "They're all dead."

This isn't something you want to hear.

I asked her who, and by way of explanation, she pointed a long slender finger to a car 10 metres down the street.

So of course, you have to look, right?

I walked up to the car, put my face against the glass of the passenger side rear window- nothing in there. Repeat with the other windows- nothing in there.

There was nothing in there.

I walked back to her, still in the gutter, still sobbing, and informed her the car was empty. She looked at me again, then cried out in a wail "Oh no! They're gone!"

Heavy, right?

I was so concerned about this girl, and I didn't want to leave her in the street, so I asked her where she lived, and flagged a taxi. I put her in it, got in with her, and off we went to get her home safely.

We arrive at the house after 15 or so kilometres, and I have to pay this massive fare, so all my money is gone. I'm thinking being a white knight kinda sucks mad balls, and I'm heartily over it, and she tells me to come in with her.

We walk in the front door, through a lounge room with people asleep on the sofas, and on the floor- obviously there had been a party here earlier. She took me through the kitchen and down a hallway, and we're standing in the bedroom.

You're thinking this gets sexy, but I'll let you down now and assure you it doesn't.

There are two people in the bed- a man and a woman. The man was...let's be honest, an obvious steroid abuser. The woman was a model, and if she wasn't, she should have seriously looked into that. They were both naked and uncovered, and I could smell the sex in the room. He snored.

The girl says, out loud, and way too loud- "I don't know these people!"

"Why are these people in your bedroom?", I asked, just over everything at this point.

"My bedroom?", she snorted. Then, matter-of-factly- "This isn't my house!"

Oh great!

I'm standing in the Hulks bedroom, looking at his little brown balls and naked hot girlfriend, with a total psychopath that must have had an LSD slurpee at 7-11 half an hour before I found her, and I will confess and say I felt quite uncomfortable.

My first priority was to GTFO, ASAP.

So I crept out of the house, with one hand clamped over this odd bitches mouth, and luckily for me when I got us out into the yard, the police car that was driving by screeched to a halt and shone its spotlight on me.

Obviously, they wanted to know why I was dragging a girl kicking and attempting to scream (if it weren't for my hand on her mouth), out of a house at what was then 4am on a Saturday night.

I explained, and luckily the girl was so obviously bonkers they believed me. I asked them to please find out where she lived and take her there, so I could get back to my life, and hopefully sneak in 2 hours of sleep before I get up for my next shift.

They begrudgingly agreed, which for cops in New Zealand, is just amazing (because they're all fucked beyond belief over there, because they're not allowed to carry guns at work like real cops). 

So they got the truth out of her, and went into this new house to make sure she lived there, and they were glad they did, because they had a meth lab in the kitchen. So I had to wait in the back of the cruiser while they called every cop in the lower North Island to come bust this house full of nefarious individuals.

I never saw that girl again, and was glad I didn't have to look any dead people in the eye that night.

And I learned drunk and/or wasted girls are to be avoided at all costs. Because the currency they trade in is drama, and that's no good if you like having a good nights sleep.

I don't know why I remembered that, but now you know it too.

Maybe it's because I had to pick up a drunk girl at work tonight, who had passed out. I revived her (picked up her legs, causing the blood to rush to her head), in time for her to puke all over pretty much everything (including herself), then I let her become a taxi drivers problem.

And by "pick up", I mean physically lift, down 2 flights of stairs. And she was let's just say "a big girl". Easily 110 kilograms of dead weight.

See what I mean? -Drama!


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.