Look at a poster for a raffle that was painted by an old housemate. She couldn't spell very well. She also called Beetroot-Beetfroot. I miss her. But I don't miss that. It was annoying.
Think about what it would be like if I did a 10 silent meditation retreat. Surely I would turn insane if I had 10 days to contemplate my life. I would think about money I owe, and think more about money that I owe. Then I would think that there is nothing I could do about it because I'm stuck in silent meditation for 10 days. Then I would think about people in my life, this funny cartoon I drew the other morning when I woke up and this website I was shown the other day which was created by a Graphic designer in Melbourne who is hilarious. Then I would think that I would like to be that funny. Sam Simmons is funny, I saw him on a tram once. He asked me what I did, I told him. He told me he worked in television and radio. I didn't tell him that I had been to see his show on my birthday for the last 2 years in a row, so I already knew that. I used to row in year 9. I didn't continue that for very long.
I would ponder over memories of rowing, Erin as the cox, and the other three girls. And the first time I worked out on a rowing machine. That was hard. But I had good form. So I quit.
I would think about all the things I had quit in my life. There was tennis with Pete the tennis teacher, piano lessons with Miss. Burch, guitar with hawaiin shirt long hair man, singing with musical notes for earings, Norah Jones loving Gale. University in 2006, several jobs, a relationship, and University again in 2010 with a whole bunch of right wing dougebags who still lived with their parents in Geelong and favoured going to the library to debate the days lecture, rather than going to the bar to discuss it. I love a good debate/discussion; however, not with douchebags and second, over coffee or beer.
I would think it's hard not drinking. And then I would start actually missing it. I would try to convince myself that it's healthy and better for my body to eat lentils and water and pray and be silent. But my heart would tell me beer. And my mind would tell me beer. And then I would think about all the beer I could of bought if I didn't pay for this retreat. I could be getting drunk right now perhaps. I could be going to see a gig, or a friend, or both. I could be attending soup parties, fun parties, even shit parties....
And speaking of shit parties: I would think about what happened to me last night at this small party in Carlton full of late 20's early 30's Ash Grunwald wannabe's. And I would call it:
Melbourne I love you but your peeps don't have any street cred (working title)
At last nights party we got rapped at.
I said "how are you".
She said "Fine, fine, I rap all the time, I'm here to get fucked up so give me some love". I said "oh ok cool. Thats a nice rap you've got there".
She said "They tell me the rules, I dropped out of school, I'm fucking cool, she's fucking cool, them cunts they hate us, but that's what made us, I'm a freestyler and I know hows ta holla".
And I was drunk. I egged her on. And on and on for ages. My friend dragged me away. Later on slappy rappy was kicked out of the party for macking some bird, and licking her tits on the kitchen floor infront of everyone.
There were a few people dancing inside. M.I.A-Paper Planes was playing. Which suggests an awkward room of people with no taste of their own playing what they think is "alternative". Anyone who actually likes M.I.A would never play paper planes, because we all know that Arular is by far her best and only good album. Seeing as I was the drunkest person there, and didn't know anyone except for 2 people who were busy in the kitchen. I thought I would make some mates on the d-floor. "Hay! great d-floor!"
Then a song change. And before I knew it I was caught in a dry hump circle, and I was the only one not dry humping anyone...Damn you Jamie Foxx and Kanye West!!! Damn you!!!
And as I stretch into my Vipinassa something or rather yoga pose- I would think that I don't like any kind of dry hump dancing. There's no place for it in this world. Especially not in Melbourne.
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