I haven’t done a hard day’s work in over five years. Not since I walked out of my last shift at Subway Indooroopilly into the pub, asking my coworker to tell the boss in the morning that I had called the store and quit. As I drank that night I promised myself that I wouldn’t be a cog in someone else’s machine again. I owned myself and if I fucked up then it was all on me. I ended up fucking up a lot.
You may not remember me. In fact I am quite sure you don’t, so I will fill you in on the details of our meeting. It was 2004. I was a fifteen year old boy from the country, and you were a fifteen year old girl from the roughest parts of Ipswich, and you could drink more than anyone I have met. My best friend invited me over for the weekend and dragged me to a stoner basement for an underage party with all of his Ipswich friends that only knew me as “Spanish” even though I do not have Spanish heritage or look in any way Mediterranean. You approached me when I arrived and you were the first girl who ever tried to have sex with me.
I am bad at break ups. I have a short list of ex-girlfriends but a long list of troubles associated with them. So this time I decided to do it right. I drank heavily, sent angry text messages, cried, let it all out, spent all my money on drugs and drinks. Tried exercising, talking to people, wrote, got on with my life. At the end of one week I was still as miserable as I had ever been. So I decided to break up with reality and reality, in turn, broke up with me.