The World According To Me

It always amazes me how drinking fucks so completely with resolve. And fucks with manners. And lets out that part of you that you try to pretend doesn't even exist; shielded by inhibition and sobriety.


In the cold exposure of the daylight hours, there is nowhere to hide from remorse. It seeps into every crevice, dragging down the sheet, exposing all that the darkness empathically hid. Turning that connection into abashment; turning sexy, smoky eyes into a garish clown face.


In the days to come you can close your eyes and re-live those moments that clung to your memory, unaware that you are holding your breath while they flash through your mind. You can feel it again, and again. Then you slowly exhale, and struggle with Miss Proper on your shoulder telling you that you've wrecked it now. Wrecked that possibility thanks to a bottle of champagne, lowered eyelashes and lips curled in a way you are absolutely certain will work. It always has. And for a good few years yet, you are certain it always will.


M. Scott Peck has a valid point on his theory of delaying gratification. But I bet he hasn't tested that theory when he's pissed.

It is approximately 8pm. There are four of us. We are sitting in the backyard. We are very, very stoned.

There are various discussions of both the benefits and shortcomings of ordering a pizza.

Thai food is the next suggestion, promptly discarded once it is discovered that no-one can agree on what to order. One person declares they do not like green curry and the rest of us stare at her in disbelief and disgust.

Someone volunteers that they are sure that one of the kebab shops in town has started delivery. Much excitement ensues! Kebabs! Perfect! Delivered! Perfect! But which kebab shop is it? There are at least four of them. The local phonebook is produced and V is nominated as Chief Kebab Shop Caller. Three of them are eliminated in quick succession. Only one possibility remains. The handset is set to speaker function and I read out the number slowly.

We hang up. Everyone bursts into fits of uncontrollable laughter, the type with tears and near misses with bladder control. This goes on for a number of minutes. It is then realised that we are still no closer to getting our dinner and the finger of blame is squarely pointed at me, for obviously reading the number out wrong. I check the phone and discover the last two digits have been entered incorrectly. I'm sure I read it out in the right order. I carefully type the number in myself, then throw the phone to V like a hot potato, as I absolutely do not want to be responsible for speaking.

Blogging from my couch is an indulgence I had forgotten about. It is quite lovely. I have a tall glass of orange cordial on the coffee table beside me, together with the course material and text from the criminology unit I am pretending to be working on. I have only typed 2 pages of notes pertaining to the formal mechanisms of social control and already my mind is numb. This whole uni thing is going to take some getting used to, again. My patterns of thinking have been inside the square for so long now that my brain is almost a cube.

This long, glorious weekend was both long and glorious. It was spent, for the most part, with friends in the big smoke. My housemates* and I trekked down on Friday afternoon, getting pulled up by the Police on the Hume for speeding and the driver explaining "I'm sorry, but we were singing show tunes and didn't realise how fast we were going. Shirley Bassey does that to you". We saw Keating! The Musical on Friday night and marvelled in its' brilliance. We had drinks at the Imperial afterwards, and I nearly imploded when we walked in to a Young Liberals gathering, sandwich board and all.

The following morning, after a cooked breakfast and a reasonably hassle-free game of scrabble (a rarity, but then again we weren't drinking so the chances of an argument were lowered) we headed to the local shopping plaza and plattered up. Then after an appropriate amount of arsing around buying tasty treats and stocking up on drinks, we began the afternoon session. I do love drinking in the daytime (When the occasion calls for it. Like, a Saturday). Later that night, suitably liquored up, we headed to the Retreat. It was my first time there. I am always relieved when I go somewhere in Melbourne and find that it's "my type of place", having well-placed phobias of uppity posh bars where I could never fit in or relax.

On Sunday, whilst my housemates continued on their journey to the Chillout Festival in Daylesford, I hung out with my besties, playing more scrabble and later was taken into the city where I ate the best Mee Goreng noodles and stocked up on nori rolls. There is only one place that does them here in Shepparton (seriously. I could not be more ashamed to write this) and they are rubbish anyway, so I always get my fix when I'm in Melbourne. I boarded the train in the early evening and was home by 10pm to be greeted by whingy cats and a grateful dog.

I slept in peacefully this morning and pottered around doing inane things before settling down in the loungeroom to finally get cracking on some study. Just prior to the housemates getting home.

Sigh.

Sometimes I do wish I lived alone again. I miss it. I don't miss always being broke (although, stangely, that still seems to be the case, mostly) but I do miss the quiet and the space and the ability to only worry about being considerate to myself and not being a tiny bit offended if I'm not considerate back.