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Move it or lose it, Toots.

Fuckadoodledoo.

My landlord just gave me notice.

I gotta move outta my beloved abode afore the next solstice. Four years in, I could feel this day approaching – fast and furious like the errant arse of Vin Diesel. Yessireebobtail I’ve dreaded it. Now it’s nigh and, well. I’m gutted. Just quietly.

My life is imploding with songlike synchronicity. Either that or a Phoenix cannot burn in part, if it’s to be reborn in full.

Let’s go with the latter, eh. Optimism is sanity for me right now. And whilst this is indeed spurious news (of bastard origins), I can’t help but call its timing predictably prescient. For this flat is the only true anchor I own to my soon-to-be-former life; the only habit urging me to make money enough to support it.

A man’s home is his castle, and a wuc’s abode is her equalizer. In years past, I’ve amassed art from Vietnam ‘n’ Cambodia, riches from Morocco ‘n’ Peru, and treasures from Europe’s teeming troves. Layer upon layer of connoisseur ‘n’ quirk until my home became a Wuccan cave of wonderment – a place where I could look in any direction and be visually sated. It’s the first real home I’ve had in adulthood. The first place I planted feet after years of travel and fucked up flatshares. And, like one’s first love, I have held it apart from all that went before it in delight and revelry.

Not to wax lyrical, yo. But you could say its been a dear friend, supportive and steady throughout many a harem of hardship. (A friend I paid $360 bucks a week for the privilege, but still.) As my sole sanctuary from copious compromises laden in my latent life – it has kept my candle of hope alive against wayward winds and usurping upswells. And somehow, throughout, I have managed to afford this choice champion. Just.

Slowly but surely, like the breasts of Jessica Simpson, the rent has risen biannually. And I have held on for dear life, like the boulder holder whose cups cannot stay the mounting mammilla. I lived in fear of the next inevitable increase (as I’m sure does JS) but turns out, there’s more than one way to snap the strap of the most bold of boulder holders, my friends.

Nothing for it but to suck it up and ride the realistic wave.

And so my endeavor becomes double decker: to find a new home and career within the month whilst staying the stink of inner ‘n’ outer beasts (and how many there are). Feels much like learning to walk whilst planning a Himalayan hike – ill timed yet undoubtably possible (in an after-school special kinda way).

In the kindtime, I’m (re)discovering that tackling Sydney’s housing market is akin to tackling my caustically Christian grandmo’ at the height of her regime.

The meek need not apply.

Nor need logic, for that matter.

Passing precipitation ‘n’ ponderment.

If the cousin to contentment, twice removed, had a love affair with the Byron of boredom, their offspring would be akin to my current mood.

Moments of contentment flash by, like the brilliant white of lightning, before the ever familiar rumble of thunder follows. Sometimes. I have such a feeling of calm that it feels as if all my tangles are merely a cryptic crossword waiting to be unlocked and understood.

The feeling is beautiful yet mercurial, like Emma Stone at a red carpet event.

Maybe happiness isn’t knowledge and acceptance built over time, but more like the tides … pulled to and fro with the whimsy of the moon and its gravitational garter. Maybe you need only faith and the flow of the sea to reap the grande jubilee. And like global warming, over time, my core temperature will rise, slowly toasting my cockles, crusty and choleric.

Sure, the proverbial polar is done for. But what is this? Reality?

Or maybe the best way to view one’s life is through a collage of casements – one for each moment you care to call upon continuously – and they can be framed in such a way as pose your plot any way you choose. Poetic for an epoch. Moving and mosaic for a minuet. Maybe.

Initiative comes to thems that wait.

Holy shit box, it’s August.

With a new month, comes new expectations. None that I’ll rise to, but still.

In other news, did I mention that I’m learning Latin? Also known as the language of love (or armor inopiae) (lack thereof). When I imparted this in passing to the dubious fuckers who populate my working life, they responded thus:

  1. You’re such a random geek.
  2. Quôcumque, collega. (Whatever, dude.)
  3. Wow, I’m impressed! (aka I thought you were stupid?)

My teacher is a sweet fuddy-duddy of a man with a little-boy haircut slicked in gel and grey. Wrapped in scarves and soliloquy, steeped in comprehension and corduroy, he is the typical product of university … where time crawls and knowledge is fermented to become fruitful at a later date. I imagine he’s been corked and lain on his side for a decade, and now is a ‘good year’ ready to be drunk in. He speaks like Lemony Snicket’s Stephano and runs off on so many tangents as to leave your ear panting for punctuation.

Somewhere, he’s still finishing his sentence.

To be said like the cured cop in Kill Bill.

As for my classmates, it’s like a director carefully cast a reverse group of oddballs to star in an ensemble drama. Or like Judy Blume with wrinkles. And a staunch lack of eye contact. I like to think I’m the well-adjusted one and they’re simply scholastic serial-killers.

Meanwhile, I prematurely bonded with one guy, it prematurely became awkward and now I prematurely plan to avoid him at future classes. Such is my example of how to follow the arc of a relationship whilst skipping over the relationship itself entirely. My theory, either I’m too susceptible to and therefore sunken by subtext, or I’m a romantic athlete – shaving off the seconds it takes to get from intro to veto. (Roughly the time it takes to exhale on a sigh.)

If nothing else, ’tis indeed lovely to languish in language. To bathe in brogue … washing my neck with words of whimsy … scrubbing ‘twixt my toes with declensions and clause.

I’d like to think I won’t become one of those wankers who quote Latin at parties and correct your sneezes for grammatical errors, but I can’t promise anything. If it helps, there are fully fledged wankers at the ready, so consider me merely an understudy in the LA of life.

We’re only trying to get us some sleep.

My brain be scattered, like the bones of a zombie on the highway of a free-wheeling granny.

I had another birthday last week. Alas, it was a rather defeated affair. As if ageing were a schoolyard bully who’d pushed my knees to the gravel (upward wedgie in one hand, downward lunchbox in t’other) one too many times. Previously I’d rallied, but this time my fortitude failed and there I splat … desperately looking to the school counsellor (botox), the principal (superannuation) or my best friend (alter ego) to come to my aid.

Not to be dramatic or nothan.

Sure, I’m only halfway to seventy. But that’s five years past supple and about a decade past lithe. And, sure. I may appear young to those decrepit souls whose boobs hang low (tarzanning to and fro) … but I can tell the old basketball from the new.

Just a little less air, and a little more skin, my friends.

Ageing. What a rort. Imagine being the first human on earth to one day find your body darkly disintegrating like feta on a hot summer’s day. God would probably be off playing golf, too busy to have ‘the talk’, and there you’d be. Freaking ‘n’ fettering. No reference for the macbook end-date your machine is slowly dimming to. Pucker up and power down, chump.

I suspect I’m late on the 33-year-old uptake, the typic time for sea change (or divorce from Tom Cruise). I’ve taken procrastination to penthouse level, continuing a job that for a decade I disposed to dispel. Thus, the rude shock of rhymic rheumatism has set in. Well wuc that, fair comrades! On this day (of inaction), let this be my stake in the sand. I hereby plot a course to a new time and place – a career where sense of self ain’t so easy to erase.

I lost you at dispel, didn’t I?

I lost you. at. dispel. (To be said like Zellweger in otium.)

In other news and impertinence, lately my inner monologue has taken on the accent of brigand, Barbossa … with Captain Jack Sparrow as my counter companion. I find myself searching for signs of emotional scurvy and thinking such thoughts as ‘that be the way it is, Jack’. Or, less often: ‘you best be believin’ in ghost stories, Miss Wuc – you’re in one’.

Meanwhile, it’s 4.53am. So while you may be tempted to conclude that I’m Sheening, in reality this is what my thoughts look like under the seven veils of insomnia.

One minute holding vitriolic vigil, the next sleeping perchance to dream that Ellen DeGeneres ejected me from a luncheon at her all-white (decor, not racist) home for upsetting Portia. Yeah, I actually dreamt that. Because a) I have a vast celebrity social life in slumber and b) I’m a frikkin weird-o-o-o (to be mimed as if blowing derisive smoke-rings).

Let me hold your crown, babe.

How am I special needs? Let me count the ways. I’ve listened to the same song for weeks now. We’re talkin’, hour after hour. Day after day. Week after Lindsay Lohan week.

And in seemingly unrelated news (to be said in the dulcet tones of a newsreader whose balls have most definitely dropped) … when I was a kid, I ate Muesli Flakes every day for months; until my Pop, like a cowboy galloping furiously to get ahead of this crazy train, bought twenty boxes to stock up for a special needs winter. I stopped the next day.

His defeat was more palpable than Pope Benedict on rye.

In joining these compulsively-aligned dots, it’s my weak (probably oughta strive for convoluted) theory that I’m mildly autistic. Not in a ‘star with Bruce Willis in a shite movie of Mercury Rising proportions’ way … but in a ‘if you smack your gums once more, I’ll hang you by a wedgie so atomic, it’ll set off ground alerts in Hiroshima’ kinda way.

I often find myself on sensory overload (making Cult Boy – with his slurps, hums, taps, smiles that assault my eyes like a novelty apron with inbuilt airbags – the gift that keeps on giving).

Cut to: listening to King of Anything so many times, my neighbours are now rocking back and forth in an extended foetal, sobbing uncontrollably, their ears bleeding at being assaulted by a song they once cherished like their first puppy (aka Robert Reed) (ergo Mike Brady).

I’m not without Repeaters Guilt (sometimes I’ll crowbar another track in), but I also can’t bear to turn it down. I dance, I sway, I clench my buttocks in an ecstasy not seen since We Are The World. (Except on this occasion, I’m the charity case.) I now understand that which my little brother always knew, as he’d grab his 20-cent cheeks to fuel an adolescent rage – one’s buttocks are the source of all ground swell (metaphorically speak-ing).

So! In addition to forming a girl-crush on Sara Bareilles for most enchanting of lyricals, it was on this autistic path that I found a pebble of thought; and here I pick it up and turn it over.

It’s possible that in listening to this glorious tune 10,001 times, I may be brainwashing myself. As in, behavioural modification, motherfuckers. We’re talkin’, Jason Bourne programmed to become a snub-nosed spy of “Red bag. Red bag. Stop right there!” magnitude.

Could my Bareilles bromance lead me down Assassin Avenue in the township of Treadstone, wherein David Webb resides as Mayor? After spending time longer than legs of Geena Davis harking this puppy, I gotta ask – what’s it doin’ to my cranium mush, yo?

Will I live in fear of equine, afraid someone’ll expect me to jump up on board with them, to ride off into their delusional sunset? Will I randomly karate chop those I suspect of making maps with my name on them (in all caps)? I mean. Fuck, man.

I could be programmed to kill the Mattress King or Sofa King. The kings of anything.

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