A look inside the mind of a mentally depreciating young man
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Francisco de Goya: The Third of May, oil on canvas, 1814.
Ouch, baby. Very ouch.
Going out last night made me realise I'm pretty incapable at a club. Pretty sure I didn't get eyed once by anyone. Damn this fat, wog body of mine. Or maybe it's because I reeked of beer (thanks, Al)? Regardless, it was a pretty great night last night. Plenty o' drank, dancing and sweating (and therefore, exercise) and then standing there awkwardly, judging the dirty, dirty women that walked past me. Then I got drunken text urge, I think that made Tania happy or something. Then on the Nightrider (after running through back alleys and past drug dealers to take a piss) there was a guy doped out of his fucking brain on like meow meow or something. And Tania and I kept chatting and Pills and I were chatting then we were going to walk to his place from Caringbah station but Pills flagged down a cab and that wasn't fun because I really wanted to walk because I was going to tell Tania to come out and hang with us at Port Hacking Road like the bogans we are at like 2:15am. And so we got back to Pills' house and ate some lamb and sudeki and drank Fiji Water while we D&M'd and watched a "Top 50 Heroes of the 90s" countdown which anti-climax'd with Madonna and her lame song "Vogue". Then I slept on the air matress and when I woke up it had pretty much totally deflated because it was the only one out of thirteen that has a hole in it so my back hurts. But now, funk, soul and R&B cures all melancholic feelings. I'm also craving a kebab next time I'm off my tits.