Four things I don't like but I find a lot of people do like.

I know a few of my posts of late have been quite ... positive? Loving? Verging on slightly sappy by my standards? I feel compelled to put order and balance back into the universe of this blog, so here are a bunch of things I can happily be quite negative about. Enjoy.


Vegemite.
Vegemite tastes like how I picture a paste made of the vomit of Hitler combined with the excrement of the devil would taste. I've tried Vegemite multiple times over the course of my life and not once have I managed more than the tiniest bite at a time. If Vegemite were a person, I would gag upon setting eyes on them. Seriously. I might even fight them. It'd be a battle to the death. It wouldn't be pretty, nor would it be a stylish choreographed action sequence. Vegemite would have the support of All Australians Everywhere and I would be a lone wolf by myself on my own against my salty black spreadable foe. We'd tussle and wrestle with fists flying and knives very nearly gouging eyes. It'd be like that scene from Deadwood where Seth Bullock has to fight the Native American Indian to the death and it's really brutal and dusty and not very pretty. Is Native American Indian the right way to say that? I feel like I'm being offensive. Better that I insult the sensibilities of those who like Vegemite than those who are the native people of North America. Why did I think of Deadwood? I think it's because I just watched two films starring John Hawkes. Boy oh boy, is he a good actor.

Sex and the City. 
Alright. I avoided Sex and the City for years, at the behest of a friend who'd been forced to sit through all six seasons by his girlfriend. They broke up soon after,  although I'm not sure what role four glamorous sex-crazed laydeez living in New York had to do with their relationship's demise. Nowadays, I have in my life a posse of amazing lady bros of my very own and I love them dearly. So when I was urged by them to maybe give the show another go I relented. I sat through four or so episodes on their couch, and enjoyed them well enough. Maybe this isn't so bad, I thought. Certainly there were some amusing "LOLSEX" moments that were easy to relate to as a female lady with a vagina. So far so good. However, I recently had cause (editing job, being very sick) to be at home for a few Fridays nights in a row. I made sure to watch Sex and the City whenever it was on TV - after all, I'd blow the socks off the girls if I suddenly had the same encyclopaedic knowledge of SatC storylines as they do. It was this intense exposure to Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda by my own doing that made me reach the following conclusion:
I don't like them. I don't like Sex and the City. I just don't. I unfortunately just don't like any of the characters. Actually, I take that back. I like Miranda. But the dykie smart-ass never gets as much screen time as horse face! Or even the slutty one sometimes! Boo hiss to you, horse face and slutty one - that's what I think of the matter. Look, I understand that Sex and the City was a breath of fresh air, that it was ground-breaking to see a bunch of laydeez onscreen talking about sex the way dudes do. I understand that, and think it's muy rad indeed. That doesn't change the fact that I find the main character so annoying that I quite often had to change the channel and watch some Rage before giving it another go. To be honest, I'd much rather watch Entourage or Girls if I'm in the mood for a posse of four taking on a city and the shagging many members of the opposite sex. Even if the latter constantly keeps me on the verge of having a quarter-life crisis. And I know Entourage is kind of filled with douchebags, but I ended up watching about four seasons of it in about two weeks, so sue me.

The sun. 
I see glum or raging status updates on Facebook by friends about how awful it is that winter's come around once more. I though, am rejoicing. At first sign of rain and gloom, my spirits soar. Summer is too hot, too bright. Summer reveals all the pudgy bits acquired over the year. Summer isn't conducive to drinking tea. Summer makes me sweat profusely, which isn't very attractive. Winter though, is the time for big coats, and beanies, and layer upon layer of dark clothing. Winter is the time for big boots stomping around in puddles. Winter's too cold? Put on another layer. Easy fixed, broseph. In winter, I never feel bad for wasting an entire day indoors because of a hangover, or because I just can't be bothered going out. Winter is perfect for being indoors while it rains, or being outside while it rains. Summer taunts you, says "Come on kid, why are you wasting the day? Carpe diem, do something, YOLO!" 
Hell, summer says things like "YOLO". Dick.

YOLO
I didn't even find out what the hell YOLO is until about three weeks ago. I didn't feel so ashamed of that fact though, when I realised that YOLO is merely carpe diem for douches. I've seen #YOLO used in a straight-faced "SRSLY, ITS A MOTTO YO" way on my Facebook feed a handful of times, and every time I almost vomited all over my computer screen.
#YouOnlyLiveOnce is what YOLO stands for, as well as stupidity and - of course - douchebaggery.
I urge you, head to Twitter and search #YOLO. You will find gems like the following:
"Tweeting and driving #thuglife #YOLO"
or "PARTY TONIGHT gonna get my drink on LOL got test 2moro #YOLO"

It should come as no surprise that YOLO was in part made popular via a song by Drake.

So, that happened.

Let it never be said that I'm not graceful under pressure. 

St Kilda Film Festival Opening Night or: I really needed to pee.

EDIT: I'd like to first make sure everyone knows that the big roll of toilet paper there DOES NOT MEAN I am comparing St Kilda film fest to toilet paper/a toilet. I had a really good time. I JUST REALLY NEEDED TO PEE.

This is why we can't go nice places.

St Kilda Film Festival opening night. Work very kindly bought tickets for a bunch of us, seeing as the festival's first evening of festivities is (to quote one of the guys) "surprisingly well-attended by the industry". I've never been one to shy away from seeing some great short films for free, that much should be a given. However, I'm hardly known for being consistent when it comes to charm, social graces, and self-promotion. The instances in which I'm good at that sort of thing come and go with no discernable rhyme or reason. I'm just as likely to put my foot in it and make a bad joke as I am to be endearingly hilarious. The likelihood of the latter occurring seems to sometimes increase though, with the addition of alcohol to the mix. This is disappointing and should be remedied, but for the moment it's much, much easier to swig a beer than to force myself to be confident at all times. 

Unfortunately, my poorly thought-out plan meant that I spent the entire night needing to pee.

We sat down (very near the stage), made ourselves comfortable. I finished off my beer - smuggled in with thanks to Dane's sleeve - as the speeches began. From all accounts Glen Robbins was about a thousand times more concise with his opening comments than Shane Jacobson's in 2011 - for this I am eternally grateful. Frankly, I don't think I could have lasted any longer than I did. My bladder lulled me into a false sense of security, the bastard. It was all like, "Yeah man. We're fine. We're good. Let's watch some fucking short films!". Liar. Dirty rotten lying scoundrel of a bladder.

Then halfway through the first film it hit. Like a bolt of uncomfortable, increasingly painful lightning bearing the very real risk of Ultimate Embarrassment. It was. Truly. Excruciating. Eight short films to sit through as I writhed in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs, trying to adjust my tights so they weren't exacerbating the situation. Now, please add to this image the fact that I had a VERY runny nose and not a single tissue. That, my friends, is why we can't go nice places. At one stage I actually thought to myself, "Goddamn. I am truly gross." 

And so, I will relate to you my thoughts on the St Kilda Film Festival opening night's filmic offerings by way of the following measuring stick: how much I was distracted from the fact that I was in excruciating pain and very near to an embarrassing situation. 

The first film was Suspended (Dir. Damian Walshe-Howling). At this stage, my need to hit up a bathroom was nonexistent to minimal. As a result, I was able to concentrate unimpeded and with my entire brain on the film. I quite enjoyed it, content in my ignorance of what would plague me for the rest of the night. Beautiful to look at, great colours. My opinion of it was most probably instantly improved by the music featured - singing, a bit of harmonica, a front-porch jam session. Also, I in no way found the young lead irritating (I've never been known for a love of onscreen children).

The next two films though, were mostly characterised by my increasingly panicked mind. Is that a skateboard? Why are they skateboarding in a tornado? Who cares. I really should leave now. I can't leave halfway through a film. I'm not going to make it. Was that an ad? Skateboard ad. I need to pee. MY GOD, MATILDA BROWN IS TALKING ABOUT HAVING GONE TO THE TOILET. I often feel like this young woman having an existential crisis onscreen feels. Not only do I need to wee, but I am on the verge of having an existential crisis. Note that I was sufficiently distracted to ponder the film. Well done, Matilda Brown (Am I OK).


I pictured my death in an explosion of red-faced embarrassment and dead bladder monster until halfway through Transmission (Zak Hilditch), which was another film with a very good child actor. A girl this time. She and her father drive through Western Australia after a pandemic in search of the safe zone. They fight, they encounter a stranger on the road. I was half expecting zombies, and was remarkably un-disappointed when there were none. The short appeared to be a handful of scenes from a feature. I don't know whether this intrigued or irritated me. At any rate, let's call my distraction rate at around the 70% mark, and the cross-uncrossing of my legs slowed significantly.

However! I was almost 100% distracted by the excruciating pain I was in by The Globe Collector (Dir. Summer DeRoche). In fact, I didn't even care that each burst of laughter brought me that much closer to COMPLETE DOOM. In FACT, I was truly disappointed when the credits rolled; I wanted to know much, much more about the man onscreen and his sprawling, all-consuming collection of light globes. If you get a chance, I highly recommend you get around to seeing it. Lovely, warm, fascinating, hilarious stuff. BOOM, Summer DeRoche. I forgot that I was about to wee myself.

By the time we got to Bonny Doon (Matthew Saville), I bizarrely and remarkably appeared to have burst through the wall. I kind of was settling into a groove, albeit a slightly uncomfortable. As such, I was able to enjoy Stephen Curry and Dave Lawson's banter pretty much completely. Maybe it was because I knew I'd reached the home stretch. Maybe the magic of cinema enveloped my bladder in a comforting hug. Either way, it was goddamn funny. Of course, one would be completely lost to the short's humour if they hadn't seen The Castle. That aside though, I'd rank Bonny Doon as a definite highlight.

Then.

Then. Then the lights came up and the crowd stood up and I looked up and realised how long it would take me to get to a bathroom. I hopped hopped hopped until I did, and then I walked out into the night and was so exhausted from the whole ordeal that I got a lift back to my car and didn't go to the after party.

That was my St Kilda Film Festival opening night. I learned that you should go to the toilet if you've had beer and are about to sit through a bunch of speeches and films. I also learned that despite the obvious pain and discomfort, how much a film distracts me from a bladder on the verge of bursting is quite an effective way of gauging what I really thought of said film.

The more you know!

Great Gatsby Trailer

Whaddaya reckon? 

I honestly am not sure what to think. Certainly it's going to be a beautiful thing to look at. I'm ... tentatively excited? That's probably the most accurate way to put it. I love Gatsby, and I pray pray pray to the cinematic gods that they smile down on Mr Luhrmann. 

Also - and this is purely my own beef - I went to high school with one of the female leads. I'm hoping this won't be immensely distracting. 

Le Tired

They say when you're going through hell to keep going. By no stretch would I call my current position or location 'hell', but I find that I'm telling myself to keep on trucking. Don't you think sleep is one of the most amazing activities? Certainly, it comes pretty high in my list of favourite activities. I've also found that my fondness for sleep increases dramatically when I find I'm unable to partake in any. 

My state of mind over most of this week.

Not that I'm being denied sleep from some sort of sadistic experiment, or by small aliens holding my eyelids open, or by a metal band playing outside my window. Work all day, go home, edit all night, sleep for a few hours, haul myself out of bed, repeat. In between that I've been kidding myself that I'd have enough time to pack up the Reb cave in order to move efficiently on Saturday. That's tomorrow.

As you can expect, I've failed miserably at beginning to pack. I've also failed miserably at defeating the illness that's been plaguing me. No matter though. I've filled to archive boxes with photos, kitchen shit, and a few books.

HNNNGGG.

Luckily, it appears I'm moving in with someone with as little skill at MAXIMUM EFFICIENCY as myself. Mike has procrastination skills that rival my own; he had the day off and reformatted a computer. Me? I am sitting here blogging and watching Snog Marry Avoid instead of packing up my belongings. I was not aware of how fond some people could be of fake tan. Were you? I feel I've had a very educational night. I've also just realised that I've gone past the point of so-tired-so-full-of-energy to so-tired-the-fuck-was-I-thinking-about? The ol' too tired to think properly game. That old chestnut. Whenever this happens, I feel that it's with an underlying feeling of, "Oh, how fascinating!". So as much as I'd like to go to sleep, part of me feels like this sensation needs to be investigated.

I opened my backpack earlier and found I'd left a mandarin at the bottom of it. So that's what that smell was! It's very mouldy. The mould attached itself to the dress that was also in the backpack. My poor, poor backpack. What did it ever do to deserve getting mouldy? And that poor mandarin. I'm sure it just wanted to be eaten, but instead it lived out its last days wasting away underneath a makeup bag and a jumper. Lashing out in anger at a dress, it knew the end was near but didn't want to accept it. I'm sure it would have been delicious. Now it stinks out my bin.

More coffee!

How to Go to Bali With Three Girlfriends

Be excited. Use the trip as a carrot dangling in the distance during long days of being employed. Pack on the day of flight. Turn up at the abode of your three travel mates, whom you've known for years now. Occasionally wish you lived with them too. Realise you've packed about half the amount of everyone else. Realise you hadn't even thought about showering. Should you have thought about showering? Should soap have been on the list of things to bring? Or a towel? Were you supposed to bring something nice to wear? The others brought nice things. And towels. And soap. Wonder what you've gotten yourself into.

Endure the coldest flight known to man-kind. Attempt to sleep. Fail. Acquire warmth from one of the girls. Together look like the smallest mother with the biggest baby known to man-kind. Land. Get to villa. Crash. Wake up. Wake up ridiculously early because of the time difference. Go back to sleep. This is Holiday after all, and there is no conceivable reason to get out of bed at 7am. Realise you're on holidays from work. Rejoice.

Breakfast at the restaurant nearest your villa with the girls. Eat mie goreng for breakfast, because you can. It's tastier than out of the packet. Funny, that. Protip: Eat mie goreng all the time cause the packet shit won't cut it back home from now on. The waiter is young, and shy, and immediately seems to fall in love with your posse of confident Australian girls. Especially the loud, charismatic blonde.

Walk around the neighbourhood. Walk to the beach. You hate the heat. It's really hot. Swat away a bug, see the tropical trees. Realise you're in Bali. It's hot. It's hot in Bali. This will become increasingly apparent as the days go on. Collectively decide it's too hot for the beach. Lounge by the pool. Spend hours by the pool, making grand plans to ride elephants, go white water rafting, to visit temples and an isolated village. Know full well none of you will muster up the energy to make any of these activities occur. It's the thought that counts though, and you all tried. It's an inevitable failure. I mean, have you seen this pool?

Catch a cab to Seminyak. Pass far more beautiful-looking shops than you'd expected to. Shopping is an activity that most definitely will happen. Walk down the beach. You've never been to this kind of tropical paradise before. Marvel at how blue the sky is, how glorious the water looks. Do this while sweating like a Biggest Loser Contestant on their first day of training.

Cocktails by the beach. A warm buzz under the shade, with three amazing friends. Is it the cocktails talking or do you suddenly want to declare your love for everyone sitting at the table? Inwardly laugh at the ridiculous Sex and the City-ness of the scene. A few years ago you wouldn't have dreamed of being in a scene like this. Congratulations son, on nabbing yourself such good lady company for a week.

Back to the pool.
Dinner.
Cocktails.
Sleep.
Reading, writing, at the villa.
Get up late.
Pool.
Cocktails.
Dinner.
Cocktails.
Rinse, repeat.
Lather, rinse, repeat.

Days are to be filled with lazing by the pool and floating in the pool. Get a massage. Drink some cocktails. Nights are to be filled with cocktails, and more laughter than your stomach can handle. Nights are also to be filled with shared beds, conversations in the dark that devolve into hysterical giggles and a lot of talk of sexy times.

Your table is inevitably That Table at every restaurant you go to, the loud shrieking one filled with four exuberant girls. Walk home from dinner, get caught in a monstrous storm. You and your friends are soaked to the bone. As one, you realise you're all in the perfect setting for the climax of a romantic melodramatic movie.
"I ALWAYS LOVED YOU!" You screech into the night sky.
Alice whirls around, and runs down the road into your outstretched arms.
"IT WAS ALWAYS YOU!"
"I WROTE YOU EVERY DAY!"
"AAAAAUUUURRHGHGHGHHG!!!"
You're all standing in the middle of a puddle in the middle of the road in the middle of a storm, laughing uncontrollably. Doesn't this sort of thing only happen in cheesy chick flicks? Apparently not. Pro-tip: It can happen in Bali. Glorious.

Realise your travel style is different to that of the girls you're with. Quickly tire of spending every day lazing by the damn pool. What's so interesting about roasting in the sun? Nothing. Nothing's interesting about that roasting in the sun. Why would you want to burn your skin? It's very hot, and very silent business. There's a lot to be said for quiet contemplation, but spending the entire day lying down turning your skin various shades of lobster? No. Consider going to a different town for the day by yourself. Quickly abandon that idea - it's too hot. Why did you agree to come to Bali? Bali is hot. DAMN it's hot.

Your companions have an aversion to hitching rides with anyone that isn't organised by a tour company, or cabs without meters. Be surprised at how irritating you find this. One of the girls talks about how different it is travelling here with other girls as compared to travelling with a guy. Inwardly disagree. Wonder why it matters if the car is or isn't organised by a gringo-ass tour agency. Wonder why it matters if the door is left open at the villa when we're lounging outside. Wonder why it's always such an ordeal making sure everyone pays the correct amount at dinner. Wonder all these things, and so wander off during one afternoon. Sit in a dirty dive bar nursing a beer, writing and people-watching. THIS is more like it.

Have such a good time with your companions upon returning that you feel more than a little guilty for growing impatient with them. Everyone's different, after all. Finding that annoying doesn't help anyone. Down some cocktails. Get a massage. Be very naked in front of Jaz. Naked conversations about creatively unfulfilling employment. Next level friendship strengthening maneuvers. Have a romantic dinner for four. The type of dinner that'd cost hundreds in Australia, and would most likely involve a shiny diamond ring. Cocktails. Rinse, repeat.

Get called "Darling" by everyone trying to sell something.
Have the following things shouted at you:
"I LIKE YOUR HAIRSTYLE!"
"LADY GAGAAAA!"
"PUNK ROCKER!!"
Find that to alternate between "pretty funny" and "very annoying".

This though, is nothing compared to Immy walking down the street in a long, tight blue and white maxi dress. She literally stops traffic.

Decide to head to Kuta, to see what all the fuss is about. Is it really overrun with Australian bogans? Do they all really wear Bintang singlets? Is it really that bad?
The answer to all of these questions is yes.
Whereas Legian had been "quite touristy", Kuta is "pretty much a more humid King Street". The men are sunburnt, sweaty and wasted. The women are on hens nights, and their skin is fire truck red with intermittent white lines.

Watch a group of five or so guys sit across the road from the two huge main clubs, watching predatorily. Be repulsed, yet fascinated. Find yourself feeling this way about most of the scenes you witness in this Australia-away-from-Australia. The horrid clubs, the bangin' club hitz, the fat and sweaty old men leering at you. Have this vague feeling that there's an amazing culture somewhere here that's being violated in some very rude way. Wonder how the Balinese feel about being overrun by awful drunken masses.

Alice baulks at the entrance to Paddy's (one of the two gross, huge clubs in question).
"I am not going in there. It looks awful. NO."
Down some tequila, which none of you ordered. Almost bully Jaz into drinking her shot. The liquid passes Alice's lips and she instantly gags. The dancing begins. Move to one of the clubs. Shitty dubstep, English guys wearing stupid caps and bum-bags. A foam pit. Step into the foam pit wearing socks, and boots. Feel the water engulf your poor, defenseless Dr Martens. Spend the rest of the night squelching while walking. By this stage, even Alice has embraced the trashy, over the top clubby, bogan-y vibe of the night. You're all dancing and laughing, with Immy instantly being oggled by most of the men dancing nearby.

The night wears on, two of the girls go to bed. At this stage, it is important to be one of the remaining two. You don't know it now, but this will lead to major funtimes, bonding between friends, adventures and future hilarious anecdotes of "The Worst Hangover Ever". Make sure not to consider the imminent torture nausea now however, as this is neither the time or the place. The time is nigh for decisions like "I should start drinking whiskey now" or "let's go to that bar, I think it's still open". Some naysayers would dare suggest that "I think that one's still open" is a sign to hit the hay. To them one must always reply, "haters gonna hate". Have one of the most enjoyable nights out in recorded history of McConaugheys.

Suddenly and elatedly realise as you're dancing (read: flailing, jumping) with your charismatic blonde friend that you've learned a hell of a lot about the lady you probably had the least strong emotional connection with. The past week though, you've come to see how interesting, witty, intelligent and kind she is. What an amazing lady. She even holds your hair back while you chunder into the villa's toilet. So much love.

Spend the next day intermittently tapping out in order to purge. Make sure to be sarcastic in between nauseous silence. According to your friends you were quite graceful given the circumstances. Be surprised at this. You're all kind of worse for wear. Silent dinner of fish on the beach. Silences are okay. This is a sign of a winning posse; hungover, irritated silences ain't no thang.

Your final days together are spent at Cocoon, a very swanky and very five-star restaurant. The restaurant also comes with a crystal-clear pool, and towels. DIDN'T NEED TO BRING A TOWEL AFTER ALL. Feel a couple of rungs below the requisite amount of graceful and classy to be there. No matter. Feel like yelling "SWAG!" every so often. Roast in the sun. Eat way too much. Eat bacon for breakfast. Get extra bacon. More coffee. More pool. Suddenly realise it's almost time to return home. Realise you haven't been this relaxed in a really, really long time. You all seem to realise the imminent return to the real world at the same time. The end hurtles at you all too quickly.

Next thing you know you're back at the airport, sitting on the cold ground reading airport books for what feels like hours. Suddenly get paranoid about getting caught with illicit substances. Imagine getting framed. Imagine spending your days in jail. Knowing your luck, it could happen. All clear. All clear to get back onto the freezing plane. Wear almost all of your clothes in order to stay warm. Your socks are still wet. Somehow manage to get to sleep, with Alice curled around you. Next thing you know, you're landing in Melbourne with a stiff neck and a sinking feeling that must be coming from the fact that Monday's mere hours away. Wonder why holidays need end. Curse the monotony of everyday life, and the way it makes the excellent times seem so so good. Feel incredibly close to the three girls. Also look forward to being alone. Almost regard the week that just occurred with an element of disbelief. Were you actually just in Bali, spending all those hours lazing by a pool? The most relaxed you'd been in months, the most you'd laughed in such a long time. That just happened. Laughter to the point of choking. You managed to feel comfortable enough to open up about things you previously had said nary a word to anyone about. Everyone sharing long stories filled with sighs. Long stories filled with victory, or yet more laughter. That shit was cathartic, that shit was the kind of shit that doesn't often come around. Ridiculous. So much love for the girls. Lots and lots of love for your lady-bros. Lady-bros. Remember having a late-night revelation over dinner and yelling, "YOU GUYS ARE MY BROS. YOU LADIES ARE MY LADY BROS. I FUCKING LOVE YOU."
Be immensely glad you've got them in your life.
Be glad you don't live with them.

Dream Offal

My brother and I have always been pretty close. I suppose that's what happens when you move interstate a couple of times, moving schools many times, and spend about a year (on and off) being home-schooled (for one reason or another). Even if we had a few childish disagreements from time to time, it was always never going to be convenient for anyone involved to stay on bad terms. Thus, we're fairly tight. 

While we were growing up I felt a certain sense of duty to protect Ev, which I guess is something any older sibling would feel for their younger brother or sister. We're both introverts, but Ev's definitely more on the reserved side than I am. I suppose while we were getting our high school on I feared for Ev and his very quiet ways. Perhaps "fear" is the wrong word to use when describing my concerns. I guess I just worried that my lil' bro would get lost in a world of less interesting, yet louder people. Our report cards were always the same, year after year. I would always be described as  "smart, but needs to focus to live up to her potential. Easily distracted." Ev though, was ever praised as "the quiet achiever". A nice, kind, yet slightly dorky quiet kid. I'd go to parties, he'd go LANs. That was my little brother. 

With that in mind then, I've recently had my mind blown a little bit. My little bro grew up. Of course, it was a given that Ev was going to get taller, hairier, less gangly. That's generally what happens to teenage boys. So it was no great surprise that he morphed from gangly kid to bearded guy. What has blown my mind over the past six months or so however, is wandering into his room to borrow some scissors and seeing films by the Coen brothers or Paul Thomas Anderson strewn on his desk. To look through the things he's created at uni (he's studying industrial design) and thinking, Holy shit! Ev's got some talent!

What I'm saying is that I'm really getting to know my lil' bro, and it's been really, really great. Perhaps it's because I now realise I won't be seeing him every day that I feel compelled to write a little declaration of affection for dear Ev. Perhaps it's because we've been hanging out more recently. Maybe it's because I've added his blog to my nightly internet routine checks.

Whatever the reason, this I know for sure:

Ev likes David Lynch. He's got excellent taste in music. He's thoughtful. I'm fairly sure he's better at being a good person than I am. He's the buffer between our mother and I. She'll be highly strung and despairing about something I've done, and he'll be placid and perfectly calm ship sailing through her stormy screeching. He's also got not tolerance for bullshit. Same as Mitch, I know that if I've tried his patience enough to make him crack a frown, I need to take a look at myself. 

He's got a sense of humour that alternates between dry, absurd and dark. He has a fascination for the morbid and off-beat. I found out the extent of this when I stumbled on that blog of his that I mentioned earlier. His tumblr, called Dream Offal, proved to be the most amazing look into what my little brother was all about. I mean, he's hardly the type of guy to declare what's going on with him at any given minute of the day. His default state is kind of just hanging out in his room on the computer, so there's really no easy way of knowing where he's at in his life on any moment over another. Scrolling through the images and gifs he's identified as inspiring or amusing or interesting - it's been fascinating. I feel like I know him a little better, like I'm scrolling through his brain from my laptop. 

We've got the same dark side, the propensity for garnering joy from a certain amount of trolling. The one that makes me compelled to write smart-ass quips on the Facebook status of someone who's humble-bragging, or whose cat just died. Ev knows how to time a sly "U MAD?". We recite that scene from The Simpsons, the one where McGarnagle's told that "BILLY'S DEAD" and are in stitches for minutes. We love David Lynch, quiet terror, darkly funny sinister spurts of violence. Axes driven into skulls with a gleeful grin. American Psycho. Dogs. Tim and Eric, and Nicolas Cage. I like walking through suburbia at night, he likes exploring abandoned buildings. As much as I love my ladyfriends, I often feel like the absurd/dark/morbid things that run through my mind don't exactly have a place at the table laid out with organic wine and beautiful teacups. It's heartening then, to be able to share exclamations of, "Yeah, it was a great film! It was fucking terrifying!" with Ev. Or to discuss the many and varied ways in which The Dude is a boss. Some time ago I wandered into his room and asked if he'd seen Antichrist. Without looking up from his laptop he responded with, "Yeah man. I've got the DVD. You can borrow it if you want." Ditto Enter the Void. Same goes for Inland Empire. He's got a knowledge of David Lynch that far outguns my own. His ability to not give a shit what other people think is astounding. If he doesn't feel like going to something, he won't go. If he thinks somewhere is shit, he'll leave. He can be brutally honest. He's quietly stubborn, has convictions that he sticks by. He's also kind and giving. And he can grow a mighty, mighty beard.  

Anyway, what I'm getting at is that Ev is one of the most genuinely interesting people I know, and I'm immensely proud of him. He's one of the few people I'd walk to the ends of the earth for. He's one of the very few people I actually missed while overseas. And his tumblr is really, really rad. You should really have a look. 

Here's looking at you, kid! 

Leaving Home

Apart from the spluttering coughing fits and the constant wheezing that are plaguing me at the moment, the above gif pretty accurately describes the state I'm in. By accurately I mean to say that I haven't turned into a skinny be-suited ad executive, but I am rather excited. Dancing around dorkily with glee, even. Not even the constant feeling of needing to cough up a lung can suppress these happy vibes.

Those who know me well will be aware of where I live. Namely, that I live quite a long way from everything good and exciting that Melbourne has to offer. When Mike asked how I'd describe the particular suburb where my parents live, I used the phrase "...it's a far-off land where the grass is green and the jeggings are tight and the bus stops are for loitering in front of". I'll let you formulate your own mental image. 

Given that all journeys home from the city last at least 35 minutes, I spent most of my third year of uni sampling the many and varied couches, floors and mattresses of pals. That fact (and a lot of time spent on South American buses) means I can fall asleep virtually anywhere. While this has proven to be a useful skill, it also means that far too much time is spent on public transport traveling back to my bed, when I could have been in my bed. Too much time on public transport, heading towards the end of the line.

Too much time driving to and from places. 

45 minutes into the city. 

An hour to work. 

I live a ten minute walk from the local shopping centre, but the rage-inducing obnoxious scummy kids that fill it is hardly worth the efficient travel time. 

Thus, it pleases me to no end to announce the following: Mike and I are moving in together, and we're moving to an adorable apartment a mere TRAM RIDE from the city. It's a fifteen minute drive to work. Call it twenty-five in peak hour morning traffic. It's DOWN THE ROAD (literally, it's hardly even a block) from a house full of some of my closest friends. 

NO MORE! Will I have to rise any time before 7am.

NEVER AGAIN! will I weigh the pros and cons of catching a Night Rider.
RARELY! Will I sleep on a floor. 

There had been other apartments seen, houses considered briefly then immediately deemed as "Ugh, too expensive". Then after I bailed and drove the forty-five minutes home (forty-five minutes in good traffic), Mike called. 

"DUDE. I FOUND OUR FUTURE HOME."

After the applications had been submitted, the references checked and the offer finally made to us, I couldn't do anything but quietly squeal to myself. I composed myself, then ran upstairs to the online room in order to squeal some excitement at whoever happened to be around. 

Upon exhaustedly arriving at my backyard abode after the hour drive from South Melbourne, I looked around and suddenly realised something quite obvious: that I was moving out. It won't be the first time I've been separated from the Reb Cave for a long period of time. And spending long periods of time at houses that aren't mine ain't no thang. But moving to a new cave (as it were) ... that means packing up my belongings. My room would cease to be. I'm sure I'll write some long-winded farewell post about the ol' Reb Cave. For now, suffice to say that I can see the process of packing my shit up to be a long, nostalgic, epic and dusty process. I'm a hoarder by nature, and this house happens to be the longest my family's stayed in one location in all recorded history of my having been alive. Thus, I've accumulated a lot of shit. 

For now though, let it be known that next weekend is Moving Time, that we've been pondering housewarming themes, as well as potential ways to incorporate Game of Thrones into the decorating of our home.