It's with a strange sense of deja vu that I sit down, hungover, to write some crap for this blog. I had to look up the spelling of deja vu—I think I must have killed the brain cell that knew how to spell it. Could not give a shit about the diacritical marks.
Sorry, where was I?
That’s right, hungover.
I have a new job; it’s a pretty shiny one. Had a bit of a celebrate last night—it seemed like a good idea at the time. Went to a bar that was also new and shiny. Big bastard bouncers at the door, dressed in black. Spunky girls walking around with silver trays holding overpriced bar snacks, sorry, tapas. (Has anyone else noticed how trendy nearly every-fucking-place has become? It seems every menu contains the words ‘rocket’, ‘aioli’, ‘pesto’ and fucking ‘jus’. Got any chips?) The toilets looked like they were hewn out of giant block of marble, the taps were motion sensitive—more technology in those bastards than the Voyager space probe. There was a sexy singer who made every song sound like Ani DiFranco, or so I thought; Stu thought she sounded like Shania Twain, which completely fucking ruined it for me. Flat-screen TVs lined the walls. They all seemed to be tuned in to a video hits show from the early 90s. The waitress came and enquired about our food—oh, yeah, it’s good, can we have some more aioli please?
After about 600 beers, we thought we’d better call it a night. I flagged down a taxi, told the driver where I lived, then the bastard went to drive straight past the first right that led directly to where I wanted to go.
‘Oi!’ I said.
He tried the same trick at the next junction.
So, I had to laboriously direct him. He slowed down for orange lights he completely could have made, and the meter ticked on. Initially, I contemplated the usual taxi banter, ‘How’s your night been?’ that kind of shit. Thing is, he didn’t seem like the jovial type, and I really didn’t give a shit about how his night had been. So I sat there, only speaking to direct him, waiting to see if he would initiate conversation. He didn’t.
As we turned into my street, the meter was on $14.80. ‘This will do,’ I said, thinking we’ll just round it up to 15 bucks. He cruised forward until the meter clicked over $15.10. Then he stopped and counted out $4.90 in change.
What a dick.
So, this has been the first exercise in trying to make myself write again. I do it all day at work, but it’s not very creative and I can’t use the word ‘fuck’. I’m also going to try and edit and gradually re-release some of the funnier stuff that used to be on here. We’ll see how it goes.
