No, I’m sorry, she can’t come to the phone she is on holidays

Today, everything feels light and smiley. My shoulders are being tickled by a breeze, rather than being bruised by the weight of responsibility and looming deadlines.

In this place, there is no ringing telephone or unstable and overfilled filing tray. In this place, the only thing demanding my assistance is the boycat who would like me to nudge some more biscuits into his bowl and scratch his upturned face.

At 9:39am, I am still in my pyjamas. I am sipping coffee in my slippers and providing a home for birds in my hair. My teeth are still wearing their overnight film of gross and eww and all I can taste is the garlic from last night’s dinner.

Luckily, that doesn’t matter because today – right now – I am on annual leave and I have very exciting plans for my time off:

  • Remain in a set of pyjamas the entire holiday.
  • Ghost Adventures Season 6.
  • Stare at things for extended periods of time with my mouth hanging slightly open so I can breathe through it noisily.
  • See what’s filled that Oprah-shaped television hole.
  • Think about doing housework but instead, just hide stuff under the bed.
  • Decide which personality I am going to be this Autumn/Winter (emo/punk bri? grown up adult who wears sweaters and light blue jeans and says “see you” instead of “see ya” bri?)
  • Look at trees with my hands clasped behind my back.
  • Make cups of tea and forget to drink them after the first sip.

It’s a fairly comprehensive list and I may have to cull some activities but for now, I’m quite pleased with my goals for the next five days.

If I have time, I am going to continue my training in Teaching Your Cat to Understand YOU For Once, The Spoilt Little Jerks.
Thus far they have learned that a long, sulky meow means “stop licking your own vagina and give me a cuddle”, a short, sharp one means “You’ve kneaded my boobs long enough just sit down!” and two long, one short means “Get away from my steak and go and eat your delicious packet meat out of your floor-bowl”

So far it’s going quite well.

 

The Greener Grasses

I desperately miss the city on these chilly Autumn nights.

Walking through country town streets is not as exciting as navigating the city’s tattooed alleys and rape-tunnels when the air is cold against your face and trains and trams click and clack across tracks, silver with the reflection of the moon.

The dark clouds scattered across the sky above me are tinged Batman-purple from the glowing city lights, leading me to the bottle shop a few blocks away.

I huddle deeper into my hoodie as I pass a drunk girl waiting at a bus stop. The glaze in her eyes tells me she’s a couple of glasses ahead of me and I quicken my pace, wanting to be at home when that happy moment strikes.

Couples pass me, arms linked in smiles understood only by each other. Businessmen talk into headsets but still hold their phones in their hands. Women tuck scarves into coats and I weave between them all, intent only on my destination.

The bottle stares down from its place on the shelf. Its familiar black label is at once comforting and assuring as I wrap my hand around the neck and carry it to the counter.

We never make idle chit-chat, those bottle shop bartenders and I. With our eyes downcast, we swap notes for coins and in a mere matter of minutes, my feet are carrying me back the way I came, through the scarf-tucking women, the phone-holding businessmen, and the arm-linking couples.

People congregate at intersections, waiting for lights to change, their impatient feet unable to remain still. Some are rocking blanket-covered prams hiding tag-along children, eager for that lullabye car-trip home.

As I near my own home, the crowd disappears and the cold gets closer. Streetlights are sparse and comforting as wide car-filled roads give way to narrow lanes strewn with newspapers and milk crates.

On those nights, I would turn my key in the lock and be glad to be leaving the city outside.

Tonight, I turn my key in the lock, missing its energy.

Ding Ding! Here comes the shitmobile!

http://www.thebestpageintheuniverse.net/c.cgi?u=irule2

It’s not unusual to hear me shout a line from a webcomic or an internet meme if I feel that it is particularly appropriate to my current situation. Most of the time those around me assume that I am, as nicknamed, retarded, and/or horribly offensive and to be fair, I basically am.

If you clicked on the link above, you are most likely not reading this blog post any longer as you’re too busy laughing at Maddox’s cruelty towards children. I understand. I did actually begin writing this 20 minutes ago.

But I digress. The giant shitmobile that is work has taken control of all my time and all my thinking power and that isn’t likely to change before July. My plans for this blog have been foiled by my superficial need for money but I am working on a schedule that will hopefully see me able to post here once a week – with something of substance.

In lieu of substance, have a cat.

OR something else that you find yourself because there’s too much pressure to find you a good cat and also didn’t you know I’m really busy right now?!