Friday, 12 May 1995
I’d ask how you are, but I’m too self-absorbed in horror to think of anything but my own suffering. She touched me again, you know, the Ms X that I don’t want to name for fear of litigation. She linked her arm through mine and rested her head on my shoulder and quaked with laughter as I vibrated on the spot with fear and tension. I say vibrated because it was a pitch above trembling, my very soul buzzed in a staccato frenzy of fear not betrayed by my pallid exterior. It’s not fucking on! I shouldn’t have to put up with this. I know her intentions may not be as evil as the consequences of her acts, but fucking hell, someone her age should bloody well know better by now. Well, I feel a little better now. Thanks for that.
I was feeling great up until then, I mean really great. My Winter Zeal is upon me and I’ve started to exercise again and walk to work. When I’ve exercised all this wobble off, maybe I might even venture out to pluck a fruit from the Girl Tree. I have to have a Gladiators body first though (we just started getting a show called “Gladiators” on Channel 7 – it’s a giggle). I don’t know why I can only be like this during the cold months. In Summer I turn into a slob – get lazy, eat bad food, bludge at work. Last night I even cleaned my bedroom, of me own free will. It took me nearly five hours. I vacuumed the floor and my mattress. I even organised my bookshelves, put all my magazines (Rolling Stone, Face, ID) in chronological order, threw out some junk, to think that some people are always like this is unbelievable. I know that this is the sort of stuff you’re supposed to do in Spring, you know, Spring Cleaning, but at least it’s done. Christ, what am I turning into? I’m writing to my sister about cleaning! I guess that’s the curse of being positive, you become boring. I wonder which is worse? As long as I’m not wearing a t-shirt that says “Choose Life”, I think I’m OK. As soon as I start wearing yellow, call in the Existentialist SWAT Team to kidnap me and re-affirm in my mind how pointless life really is.
Monday, 15 May 1995
Met Mum yesterday for Mother’s Day (never sure where to put the apostrophe on Mother’s’s’s’s Day). She picked me up at my place and we went into Southbank. It’s really nice there, I’d never been before because I generally can’t stand those huge shopping places like Daimaru (you should see the riff raff that goes through there these days) but Southbank was really nice. I saw a whole bunch of stuff I wanted to buy. Mum and I had lunch in this restaurant called “Simply French”. The food was delicious and I gave Mum a Grandma Brag Book for your baby’s photos. It was nicely wrapped and all. She seemed to like it, though it’s always hard to tell with Mum, isn’t it? She does seem excited about heading over to you though, she’s all in a flap, trying to stuff everything in her case. People have given her so much stuff to bring to you! It’s sweet.
Anyway, I ought to go. There’s stacks of work to be done.
Sketch by J