Everyday is like Sunday.

Mother always said it would stop the itchiness.

Yet again another holiday that ended without the objective being achieved. In reference to the Falls Creek Fail and now the GZA fail.
The cheap thrills of the one cent games at the Taberet, the meaningless destruction of things that we never could own in our lives, the white washed drips of meaningless politeness offered by underpaid hostesses.

I met Simon, scarred from lip to ear, a thick red scar as thick as two fingers.
Boxcutters aren't as good as cocoa butter.
Come in spinner, the crew is a bunch of winners.

Brasserie, who by the way owes me a paragraph about lions, decided to try and get all slap happy. He knows how that ended.
Benny seemed despondent, yet that's Benny. I should of seen Hannah more, but the lure of Dan Murphy's always wins.

Went and saw a skate prem, that I had already seen a week earlier.



Barlow got a mention, as well as Garth, Pidge and Geldi.
Yuta was drunk as fuck when I saw him. All I remember is him yelling obscenities at me until he identified me by my rap word.
Saw Steve drink triple scotches on the rocks until he thought morphine would be a good idea. I stayed at the bar with jugs of vodka, coke and grenadine.



Remembered forever. Stumbled upon a few gems along my drunken travels. I met the one aboriginal in Melbourne. There is only one. He said to say hello.



I wish I had more to say. I had a notebook full of tangents, spiels, sketches, death, lyrics, mind control techniques and hallucinations, yet i think the Mercure threw it away with all the rest of my empathy. It was the head start, the basis for a huge spiel that would in turn be passed unto you, so I guess im going to have to just make things up or show you photos.



Come join the anti social internet work for the dole in thing, everyone's doing it!
If everyone jumped off a bridge would you do it?
Yeah, bungee.

I slept on Flinders Lane for two hours while two friends got bashed by Victorian police. They got bashed.

I saw a police raid in Prahran. PRRRAAANN.
Purple gloves, Ed Hardy shirts and a Ford Explorer.
Canyonero.
The feens were still waiting at the bottom of the stairs, in full knowledge five detectives had broken in and had torn the place apart, in the feint off chance they would still be able to score.



Saw this on a tram.
We went to 7-11, racked iced coffees and mixers and kicked rocks back to the spot. Ended up smoking melbourne joints, not melbourne bewgs.



Had a delicious picnic with this mole. She complains too much, but the food and the weather was delightful. I never thought I'd be the picnic type but hey, she caught me on a bad day. I wish she would fucking shut up most of the time though.



I fell in love with a stripper on Swanston St, then six dollars later she broke my heart. She thought when I motioned for her to choke herself, that I meant come closer to my window. Not a loss, but not a win either. Apparently four strippers at Barrack St Club X are transgender. Not that us, the visual beasts of bourbon we are, really care that much these days. I mean come on, it's a recession. Speaking of bourbon, Port Royal steeped in Kentucky Bourbon is my new poison.

I ran as fast as my White Ox tainted air sacs could take me up Bourke St, side stepping and hopping and chucking the anchors on at the drop of a hat. Now I know where the Melbourne City Shuffle came from. I didn't even need to run, there was plenty of time lest to catch the bus.



He's always present and accounted for soldier. Me and Kristian drank vodka out the bottle all the way to Flinders, lugging a bag that the police had kicked the wheels off of, to make carting around his life just that touch more harder. Last night I threw up all over the train, that reminds me.

Dylan would of been ready in the yard with a bag of sand, no doubt.



I could watch the corner of Bourke and Swanston twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, on the hotel television.
If only I was a meth head again hotel living would be the ticket. Clean sheets everyday, spy camera, cheap gear and every tobacconist selling flutes under the counter. This is unparalleled however by living near two pubs with a broken bike and an iPhone, apart from the fact they ripped up the tramline on my street three quarters of a century ago.



I sat down on the train and by chance plopped my drunken body down next to a Baby Doll smelling, raven red pixie haired princess, with amazing socks. I was too nervous to talk to her, but I think the feelings were requited, so we just stayed jacked into our escape pods all the way to town. Anyway, those are her legs.



The homeless are always alot more fun over east. We even bought him a coffee.
Talha, you gun.



Drew this on the plane coming home.

Alot more happened, I could write about alot more, I could lie about EVEN more but I won't. I missed out on so much uni work, I'm tired, sore, with no real effort exerted in this post. I want you guys to know I'll be back. Gotta get on that Lemon Detox. I'll come up with something interesting to spiel about this week, just wait and see. Anyway i'm out, just like Patrick Swayze, I'm playing it Ghost.

Peace fuckers.

Oh, I did a shit in the hotel shower.
Twice.
Two separate occasions.

Come on, I was off my fucking head.