I’m in Kelvin Grove. At QUT. In the library. The library is pretty empty. I wish there were more people in the library. It’s pretty hard for me to focus on economics right now because I feel too horny. I keep drifting off and then realising I’m touching myself under the table. I wonder if I should touch myself in a toilet cubicle. I think someone’s coming into the library. I’m gonna go to the toilet cubicle.
I don’t know if I should be studying business.
I wish I looked older.
I wish I had girlfriend.
No matter what: my dog is happy to see me. Continue reading
I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I’ve decided to delete the history of us on Facebook. Before I unfriended you the other night, I went to your profile and clicked the ‘see friendship’ button. It told me that we became Facebook friends on a Sunday in March 2011. Continue reading
Karolina was on the bus when it hit Punjabi Palace. She had noticed the bus driver when she had got on, because he’d tapped the Go card machine closest to him and said, “Gotta touch on here, love,” and then when she’d moved towards it he had leaned over the gate that coralled him into the driver’s seat and said, “You look like a little pixie,” and winked, and she had recoiled because he’d smelled strongly of Bundaberg Rum & Coke, a smell she was familiar with from her time spent packing bananas in Far North Queensland.
Charlie recalled first meeting Claudia in Biology at the end of year twelve. They had been lab partners and were doing basic titrations. Claudia had done most of the work, following the procedure exactly as the lab had been designed. Claudia had delegated Charlie the task of recording their results, which he had done, though Claudia had thought Charlie’s handwriting a bit sloppy, so she had rubbed his writing out and filled it in with her own. They had received top marks. Later, after school, Claudia had invited Charlie to her house for dinner, which had confused Charlie because it had sounded like a date. He had not known what to wear and, at home, had deliberated between a business shirt and tie, polo shirt and t-shirt. Continue reading
*read along with Oliver Mol…if you daaaaare*
Charlie was standing outside “Strange Circumstances”, a new club in Brisbane that had modelled itself on Melbourne’s “laneway culture”. He had not gone inside yet. He’d been standing under the club’s neon sign, something that was partially obscured by graffiti and, oddly, a t-shirt with the print: We’re Full, Fuck Off. Charlie, a bit drunk, had been staring at the sign and after a few seconds he thought: What? This thought was followed by a rationalisation, or an attempt at a rationalisation. He thought, maybe, the t-shirt and graffiti were filters, lenses to view the statement “Strange Circumstances”, some sort of literal Venn diagram. It made sense. He looked around. People were dressed in paisley shirts and black, skinny jeans. He had seen a blog or two. He knew how artists dressed. So this was an “installation”. This was art. But what was it saying? Charlie thought maybe the artist was arguing that “racism” showed its dirty colours–“graffiti”–under “strange circumstances”. He considered Cronulla. Cronulla was a little strange, he thought, if only because it was typical. Typically Australian. These were the thoughts–along with a voice he had swallowed, had sent down, down, down to his stomach, had tried to drown in Asahi except hadn’t entirely drowned in Asahi, that would occasionally resurface, scream, ‘DON’T MARRY THIS GIRL, DON’T MARRY THIS GIRL’–that ran through his head when Mavis came out and lit a cigarette.