10:46 pm review.

I walk into Cherie’s room, with my laptop open, Google Docs beaming blue light, excited to share a story I’ve just written. I turn on the light, revealing her positioned neatly on the left side of the bed, with a black strapless bra wrapped around her head. Earlier today she mentioned she wanted to buy earplugs to block the sounds of New Canterbury Road. Perhaps the bra was the fix for now. 

I wake her. ‘Turn that top light off or I’ll chop your dick off’ – she says. I ignore her request, hand her the laptop, and tug the bra from her forehead. She reviews my words, as she's often asked to do. Her expression says this is no good. She pushes the laptop towards me and sets the task of writing something ‘entirely true’, because I tell too many fibs when I write, and Cherie hates liars. So, I leave, I turn off the top light, I write, I come back, and I hand her this. She reads, ‘better’ – she says.

Too long.

Old friend: There’s like this legit Israeli rock star living on our couch. We met him at Asher’s gig a few weeks ago. It’s such a fucked story dude. He had to flee Israel because he didn’t want to do that mandatory military training you’ve got to do. Have you heard about that? It’s so fucked, aye. Aww dude and Asher; one of the guys I’m living with, who use to smoke a fuck tonne of weed and do a heap of acid, had a tab at his gig and hasn’t slept since. He’s gone into a full psychosis. It’s so heavy. Oh shit, and get this, when I was in Mexico. Do you know Sarah Kapen? She’s been seeing Ant, which is fucking crazy. She’s like head-to-toe tats and I’m pretty sure she’s got a drug problem. Anyways, so when I was over there, she was doing tattoos out of my room. But I found out that she was dealing ketamine out of it too – so fucked aye. She’s a crazy talented artist and I got this for free – it’s an eagle. I guess it’s kinda like payment. But yeah fuck, enough about me, what have you been up to?

Me: Yeah… umm… just been working, I guess. Went to Cherie’s cousin’s engagement party the other night, which was… cool. Like, nice meeting the family and stuff.

Fridge yeah. 

I open my fridge and scan for food. There’s half a capsicum, a sip of milk, a tupperware container filled with rice, a wedge of lemon, a packet of grated cheese, a sad ball of lettuce, and fish oil tablets. I close the fridge. I open the fridge. There’s half a capsicum, a sip of milk, a tupperware container filled with rice, a wedge of lemon, a packet of grated cheese, a sad ball of lettuce, and fish oil tablets. I close the fridge. I open the fridge. There’s a steaming hot pizza and an ice-cold pale ale. The third time’s a charm.

Seen.

Trent: Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the sexiest of them all? 

Mirror: *reflects image of unkempt and objectively unattractive man*

Trent: Mirror? 

Mirror: *reflects image of unkempt and objectively unattractive man*


#TMI.

Jess: Can I tell you something deeply personal, Lee? 

Lee: Of course. 

Jess: 3475 56741 9, reference number: 3.

Same same.

The kitchen appliance that shares my girlfriend’s last name doesn’t work. She asked me to proofread an email to her real estate agent. She had misspelt the word malfunction, as manfuction. She shrugged “they both mean the same thing”.

A cheesy poem.

We lay there naked with legs entwined.

I popped her pimples, she popped mine.

We couldn’t stop until our faces were pizza pies.


Oh Darby me. 

I turn to my girlfriend who’s driving,
“This Darby person owns like everything on this street.
I swear I’ve seen like four Darby-named shops: Darby Pizza, Darby Book Shop, Darby’s Indian Home Diner.”

“Darling, we’re on Darby Street.”

“Oh, right.”


Terry’s Treaties.

I look at Terry, who’s eating the usual afternoon tea: biscuits. Lots of biscuits. Green ones, orange ones, reddish ones. He looks satisfied, and judging from the speed with which he’s eating the biscuits, he’s enjoying them. But I can’t help but think: surely he’s over them? I mean, he had the same biscuits yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Terry’s had the same bloody afternoon tea for 6 years. That’s 40 dog years… 


Achoo.

I hadn’t felt so special
than when she said ‘bless you’ after I sneezed.


A Tasmanian walks into Sydney bar.

”Hey brother, how ya going?”

“I’m alright”. 

“You look thirsty, what can I get ya?”

“I am, actually. Could I get a pot of the Pale Ale, please?”

“A what?” 

“Oh sorry, a mini.”

“You mean middy?” 

“Yep”.


The Crack Conundrum.

You know when you see someone sitting down, all nonchalant, at like a bar or something, and their butt crack is just out? Like WTF? Like surely you know it’s out? Surely you can feel that cool breeze coming through that open door over there, kissing your bare bum? I wonder if these people even realise it’s out, or maybe, it’s like they realise but they don’t give a crap. Ha! Crap! Nah, but seriously, it’s got me concerned. Because think: if these people haven’t realised that their bottoms are out, just imagine how many times you may have had your crackalacka on show, without even knowing. Probably A LOT.


I don’t smoke but…

Her right hand’s got a vice grip on a vape. ‘I’m not smoking anymore but can I have one of those?’.
His right hand pulls out a deck of Winfield Blues from his short pocket. ‘Sure’.


Card or Cash.

”That’s 11 bucks thanks. Card or cash?”

“Just card” – I say as I hand the woman behind the bar cash. 

I walk away, embarrassed.


Weekend outing. 

Tim: I really like the simplicity of this. 

Phoebe: Agreed. It’s not abstract. It’s not trying to be anything. It just is. 

*A couple huddle around the same phone, looking at an ad for the new McCrispy Burger, at the NSW Contemporary Art Gallery*