Tag Archives: rort

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.

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).


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