Tuesday, 14 Feb 1995, 9:13am
St Valentine’s Day. Where’s my fuckin’ cards? I haven’t got one damn message of desire, and it’s already quarter past nine. I haven’t got any faxes, letters, cards, taped messages – not even a nudey photo of someone I’ve never met but glanced at briefly on Parliament Train Station, Platform Four. What’s the deal here? There was only one Valentine’s message for a “J” in the Herald-Sun, and that was from “Betty”. The only Betty I know is Josh’s Mum. Call me choosey, but I was hoping for someone vaguely within my age demographic. I don’t care if they’re fat and spotty, as long as they lust after me pathetically. I want an admirer with no self esteem. Maybe I should get a dog. Dogs have no self esteem, that’s why they’ll do anything for you. Where is my army of devoted suppliants? BASTARDS!!! You doin’ anything special for Valentine’s Day? Sorry, I guess that’s a bit personal, isn’t it? Maybe my Army of Lovers put my messages in the paper in code, using my various nick-names and aliases, like “Super Slug”, “Eros”, and “Electric Trousers”. I’m sure that’s what’s happened. I’ll have another look through the paper and pick them out. I knew they wouldn’t abandon me. Sigh.
Same day, 1:08pm
It’s turned into a sodding soggy hay fever day. I can’t take two steps without having to honk into a hanky. Gives me the shits. I’ve gobbled down tonnes of pills to try to stem the flow, but it only makes me drowsy and obtuse. To make things worse, it’s 38˚C with a dry Northerly gusting down Flinders Lane. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. I hate Summer. And because I’m so slow from the antihistamines, I’m easy prey for the office shit-slingers, and I hate that. It’s so damn hot that I might even have to take my shoes off, and I hate that. My face is itchy and my eyes are swollen, and I hate that. It’s too hot for imbibing an invigorating coffee, and I really hate that. Gimme Winter, with layers of clothing, heaters and ruddy faces with single tears of snot quivering limpidly on the ends of noses. Gimme skies that look fit to burst and people struggling with inside-out umbrellas in Bourke Street. Gimme anything under 25˚C!! I’m in a serious whingeing mood. I wanna go home, I feel like shit. The best part about whingeing in a letter is that you can’t tell me to shut up, so I guess I’ll have to shut myself up. I’m gonna go collapse in the shade somewhere and let the crows pick my bones gleaming.
Photo taken by J