The autopsy of a one night stand...

I have just finished watching "Weekend" which if you haven't seen is a low budget movie that follows a gay one night stand that manages to stretch out over an entire weekend.

Russell is drunk in a club, trying to hit on a hot guy, but when his advances are ignored he moves on to another guy. Cut to the next morning and you see Russell making coffee for the guy that had ignored him.

They chat in bed, they share, they laugh, they get pissed at each other. They have more sex as the one nighter keeps going.

It ends quite sadly, but very poignantly. I really enjoyed it, but it saddened me in the same breath.

I actually miss the art of a proper one night stand (if you could ever say there is an art to it). Hanging about in a bar when someone catches your eye and the next thing you know you're all over each other.

You get home, for a drunken fumble and potentially mind blowing (but usually disappointing) sex. The next morning you chat through the hangover and awkwardness. If its far too awkward, you find your jocks and you leave. If there is a spark however, you will exchange numbers and have more sex.

I miss the chance to even see if there is a spark. Right now I am having more sex than I have in the last six months. These are generally grindr/scruff hookups where there is never a chance to express a spark.

I want to go through the dating dance again. I want the awkward morning after. I want to feel the uncertainty of whether I'm texting far too often or too early. I want the joy of having someone text me to see if I want to do it again.

I don't want it to be smooth sailing where I find the love of my life tomorrow night at the bar. I want to be hurt, I want to be nervous and anxious, I want to be let down.

I just want a chance to feel emotion again.

Good news everybody!

My liver is no longer fighting Hep C... I was at the stage where a very aggressive treatment regime was set to begin, but the last round of blood tests have shown that not only my liver working better, but there is no sign of the infection.

Hep is a strange disease in that your body can actually fight it off and you will naturally pass it, but that usually happens within the first 6 months. If it doesn't pass in that time, they treat it with interferon, which will make your hair fall out, give you extreme nausea, have a major negative effect on mood just to name a few of the side effects.

For me it took almost 12 months, which is not unheard of but uncommon.

And more good news... I have found somewhere to live. I've been staying with my parents (sigh) after my place good flood damaged. They've been overseas for the last few weeks, so I've had some space.

But next weekend I'm moving back to the city (New Farm) and will be close to my friends and my life again.

But the bad news... I broke up with my boyfriend on Wednesday.

Sigh...

Can you ever just be whelmed?

I'm in apathy city right now. If I were to put a positive spin on things I would say I'm just going with the flow, maintaining the status quo, but I'm not. It seems I really don't care what is going on a round me and I'm just too lazy to make the changes needed to get my life back on track.

I lost my higher duties contract at the end of March, and took a fairly sharp cut in my pay. But I have not applied for a single job since then to try and get back to the position I was in.

Lazy.

I'm barely putting in any effort to lose the last 8 kilos that I keep harping on about in previous posts. If I weren't locked into a contract with my gym, I probably wouldn't be doing any exercise at all.

Lazy.

With my recent health problems I should be breaking the old habit of getting trashed and hooking up with random blokes - especially when I got so trashed on Friday night and hooked up with the "Nice Guy" again. It really isn't doing my body and my state of mind any good at all.

Idiot.

So what can I do to get out of this major, deep sided rut I've got myself into? Well I'm thinking a change of city may be in order. I've done it once before (packed up and left Toowoomba and my life took a major turn for the better). Could it work again?

Sydney? Melbourne? Maybe even Cairns? Who knows? A change of scenery, a change to my circle of friends (as much as I love them all) may just force me to take some direction in life.

But is this just me wanting to run away from my problems here? Is it a lazy solution to me being lazy (even though its not easy to move city)? If I actually pulled my finger out at work, I could force myself into a new job here. If I even bothered to look at the job sites, and took the time to do an application I might actually succeed in finding something (I actually have a rather impressive resume).

All I know is I don't want to rush this. Giving up a permanent government job (no matter how much of a pay cut I took) in this economic climate is not a wise move, especially when I know I'm just being lazy. Moving to a city that is probably facing worse unemployment than my current locale is equally unwise.

But it is in the back of my mind. It it will sit there for a little bit longer.

If things haven't changed by Christmas I will revisit the proposition.

Thoughts?

Thank you McDonalds...

Well I moved house, again, last week. Not my most preferred thing to do on my holidays (considering I only moved back in the middle of December), but the gay couple I live with bought a new town house, and asked me to come with them.

So luckily I still had loads of stuff in boxes, and the housemates organised (and paid for) the removalists and cleaning. So it was a fairly easy move.

The new place is absolutley fucking brilliant... nice and modern, and freaking huge. Still have my own bathroom (I'm pretty sure I could fit four men in my shower), and it's got ducted air con, so I have been sleeping very very well at night.

The only downside to the move is that it's taking so fucking long to get everything reconnected... it took four days to get the phone on, and now Optus are telling us its going to be up to ten days before they can get the broadband back on.

I'm dying without my net.... I can't jump onto facebook when ever, I can't check out everyone elses's blogs, and I can't get my porn fix...

So today I'm sitting in my local McDonalds, because they have free Wifi... you don't even need to buy one of their skanky fat laden burgers to get it.

The only down side is it's fucking freezing in here, and it's now full of school kids.

Time to piss off home and do some more unpacking I think.

Let me point out your flaws in a public forum...

As much as I don't like it, I have to admit I am going bald. Fuck it.

I've always had very high peaks - that comes from my maternal grandfather. He had a very full and bushy head of silver hair up until the day he died. But in the last 3 or so years, it's also started thinning at the front, but remained very thick at the sides - much like my paternal grandfather.

And there's not a god-damn thing I can do about it. I used to try and keep the top a bit longer and brush it forward, but then I admitted to myself that that was a comb over, which is the worst possible thing to do to your hair. So I just decided to shave it all off. And I'm quite happy with that look. In fact, I actually find men with clippered hair extremely hot. Even better... the chrome dome, completely hair free head - hmmmm.

But the thing that really annoys me the most about losing my hair in my early 30's is that people seem to feel its completely appropriate to mention it in passing conversation;

A new manager - "So I see TAFE has made you loose your hair!" with in the first 30 seconds of meeting her. Fuck you bitch.

A teacher - "Oh Ben, I see you've lost as much hair as you have weight. Haha". That was a back handed compliment cunt.

Aunty, over lunch with lots of relatives on Sunday - "You know you can get a prescription to stop any more of your hair falling out." Yes Aunty, I hate you too.

How would these people feel if I countered their funny little quip with something that pointed out one their physical imperfections, over which they have absolutely no control?

New manager - "I see those acne scars aren't hidden very well by your caked on make up." Opps... that would be inappropriate.

Teacher - "Did you happen to forget your deodorant this morning , because you are more whiffy than Oprah's fat folds on a Texas summer afternoon?" No, that would be nasty.

Aunty - "You do realise that your bra is providing inadequate support for your sagging boobs, and they shouldn't be hanging down near your belly button?" I think I would be disowned.

So what gives people? If I said anything about a person's weight/hair colour/wonky eye/crazy man beard/lisp/missing front teeth/giant ears I would get mercilessly attacked for being nasty and cruel, but its OK to pick on the follicly challenged.

The next person who says anything about it is gonna get my foot up their arse.

Sounding like a Pink song much?

I'm having an identity crisis. For the last couple of years now I've been selling my self as a "gay, former fatty and potential alcoholic" - shit even one of the boxes in my side bar says pretty much the same thing.

And as a way of describing yourself, that is a pretty shitty way to do it.

I'm by no means ashamed by these things though (well the excessive grog is a bit worrisome sometimes), but should I be defined this way?

I only came out in 2007, and after spending so many years hiding it from everyone that was close to me, I found myself slipping it into conversation with new acquaintances with in a couple of minutes;

"So you're a hairdresser? My ex-boy friend was a hairdresser". Nothing sleazy, nothing sinister, but it probably wasn't necessary 9 out of the 10 times I did it, and most of these strangers who I've never seen since probably didn't give a shit anyway.

It's the same with my weight loss. There was a stage after I'd lost the 35 kilo's where all I could talk about was the gym, weight watchers, and low-fat eating. I surely was boring the shit out of anyone in ear shot, but a lot of the women at work would ask me about it, so I happily obliged. But I've been this weight now for almost two years (apart from some minor fluctuations), so is it time to leave that part of my life behind?

And now with the grog, I've obviously made enough comments about my drinking shenanigans that the first thing my boss asked me this morning was "Did you have another boozy weekend?". And how often do I regale people with stories of me being refused entry to every bar in the Valley for being drunk out of my skull?

Well enough is enough.

I don't want to be defined by the place I like to stick my dick.

I don't want to be remembered for being the guy that used to be morbidly obese.

I don't want to be the guy that people put bets on will pass out first at parties because he drinks so much.

But when you take all that out, what is left? Well plenty really.

I'm a fantastic cook and love whipping up great meals for my housemates and sharing recipes with the ladies at work (of course they're low fat ones).

I have a very strange sense of humour - dark, sarcastic, definitely left of centre, but people that like that sort of thing, love my jokes.

I love to write (though the last month or so I've not been getting to it as much due to work and the house move), and people actually enjoy reading my words. I'm taking some steps to become semi professional this year. I've enrolled in a short course on freelancing, and am about to submit a couple of features to various magazines and street press.

There is so much more to me than I used to let the world know. I just need to change my own marketing and sell the positives.

Tales from the bus to boganville... part 2

Overheard on the 376 express to Stafford this afternoon;

Accountant Type Guy - "So I said to him 'You've got the wrong tax code, for the wrong cost centre on the wrong general ledger buddy!'"

Accountant Type Girl-"What a dork! Some people just have no idea, do they?"

Accountant Type Guy - "Tell me about it. It was hilarious!"

Sad thing is I knew exactly what they were talking about.

Kill me.

Relief is at hand...

I'm not talking about masturbation people... it seems that the work gods are smiling upon me, and my crippling work-related mental anguish that I blogged about some weeks ago may actually be coming to an end.

Thank you Zombie Jesus!

My boss has asked me if I could help out one of her other managers with a reasonably large HR project that needs to be wrapped up before we close for Christmas. It's going to be a huge shit fight and a lot of hard work.

I'm going to be running lots of workshops, running and analysing heaps of data and generally frigging around with the payroll/HR system. Pretty boring stuff really, but it's main attraction for me? It doesn't involve any customer service projects at all!

Praise Allah!

I should actually be pissed off with this project though. It's not replacing my current workload, it's on top of my other projects. So I've got this new super-dooper high pressure project to wrap up in 6 weeks and three other heaps of crap to get over the line in the very near future.

The pressure will be on... but I'm looking forward to the challenge.

I'm not sure how this really came about, but it sure pays to have an open relationship with your boss. I had a bit of a download to her last week and she popped up with this today. Though I do suspect my mate Fleury D possibly had a word in her ear too.

THANKS FLEUR!

Now with my work mojo coming back, and the love life looking a little bit better, hopefully the blogging mojo will return too.

She's touching my special place

I've finally come out to most of the people in my life. It started with my friends in the middle of last year, then most of the people at work over the last 12 months or so and then the parents around my birthday.

The whole process has been relatively pain free. No one has had the adverse reaction that I was told to expect (mum is slowly coming around, but that's another story). A few friends were a little standoff-ish to start with, but their behaviour soon went back to normal - the usual excessive swearing and drinking in my presence.

But there was one woman at work who I just couldn't bring myself to tell. I was her boss for a period of time and she managed some really difficult teams and projects for me, so I have a lot of respect for her. She's also a bit like a second mum to me as well. I just didn't have the heart to tell her.

Well, that all changed last week. She asked me why I was looking so happy lately (I obviously look like a cranky old cunt most of the time) and before I could answer she chimed in with, "Don't tell me you've gone and found yourself a woman!".

I didn't even hesitate - "Fuck no Jen, I went and found myself a man. And he's fantastic." She paused for just a second and said "Why the hell didn't you tell me you were gay?". And we carried on just like nothing had changed - and of course nothing has.

There is one weird thing that has happened though. She's turned into a "toucher". We were always friendly, but now the body contact has jumped a few notches.

A kiss hello and a hug goodbye. Well lots of people do that - nothing strange there.

A gentle touch of my hand here and there. Hmmm a bit more intimate, but no need for alarm.

Casually rubbing my back during a meeting. Ok - that's just a little bit out there.

I'm not uncomfortable with any of this. I have other female friends where we've always done that kind of thing. But this has almost been an instant change. It's quite nice really. She's obviously become a whole lot more comfortable around me. What more could I ask for from a friend?

But when she started talking about sex with me today at lunch... I had to change the topic.

How to freak out the new boyfriend...

We all know that I am a sleep walker, but luckily I have always been able to keep my nocturnal wanderings to my own room (or house when I lived alone) and I've never done it when sharing my bed with anyone.

Well that all changed on Saturday night.

The Man and I went out for a few drinks on Saturday evening. Nothing too special. Just a quick visit to The Beat (not a "Beat" but a nightclub called "The Beat" for you southerners) where I imbibed enough beer to make me giggly, but not a big night by my usual standards. We were back at his place by 4am and happily in bed soon after. No dramas, lots of fun.

When I've had a few drinks, I tend to sleep really heavily. No tossing and turning. Maybe a bit of snoring, but it's usually a nice deep sleep. So I was a bit surprised when I rolled over at 11am and found the following sitting all neatly stacked together on the floor on my side of the bed -

1. - An iron
2. - Approximately 10 DVD's
3. - Scrabble

Holy shit. Fucking psycho alert.

The Man was already up and out of bed (cooking me breakfast, as he does most mornings) so there was no way I could put all the stuff back before he noticed. That would have been an exercise in futility though, as I had no idea where I got them from in the first place.

It's not my fucking house.

I laid there for a few minutes in a state of mild panic. What if I went into his housemates' rooms to get this stuff? Was I wandering around naked? What if he thinks I'm a freak? What if he dumps me?

After a while the need to relieve my bladder became over whelming, so I jumped out of bed (I discovered I was wearing boxers that I didn't go to sleep in - phew, I wasn't naked) and walked out into the kitchen with all the stuff I had collected to be greeted by roars of laughter from all assembled.

It appears that I made few trips throughout the morning and when the man asked me what I was doing I responded "I'm going fishing".

Luckily I had told him about my sleep walking early on, so he wasn't too surprised.

Tales from the bus to boganville...

I've become a great user of public transport of the last 6 months or so, due to the car still being off the road. And while bus travel is generally much less eventful then the train, there have been many times recently where I've shuddered at some of the actions of people on my bus.

Yesterday afternoon there seemed to be extra crazies and bogans hanging around my usual bus stop in the city. There was one couple with a little girl that caught my eye - standing in the middle of the foot path smoking and swearing at the toddler ("You'll get a fucking belting if you do that again" and such). The woman had hair down past her arse, but it looked like it hadn't been washed in weeks and he had his pack of smokes under his shirt sleeve (I really didn't think people did that anymore).

I was praying that they weren't getting on the 375 with me, but Jesus hates me, so sure enought the trio piled on. The bus was filling up fast so they didn't get seats together, but took the seats on either side of the aisle right in front of me. I managed to score a seat to myself, so that was pretty sweet, until the next stop where an old, skinny, unshaved man got on and sat next to me. He staggered a little bit and looked like he was just kicked out of a west-end hostel (plastic bags and all).

This old man started waving and making faces at the little girl for a bit and then asked her "Do you know how to use a mobile phone sweetie?". It was a weird thing to ask such a small girl. What came after that blew my mind;

"She's three, of course she doesn't know how to use a fucking mobile ya stupid cunt," screeched bogan mum.

I, being of sound mind and fully skilled at avoiding bogan beatings, would have ceased the interaction at this stage, as the parents are obviously drug fucked. Old guy, however was obviously intent on interacting with this child, and continues with, "Is mummy right sweetie?".

Bogan dad now turns around in his seat with fist raised and screams at the old man "Don't you fucking talk to her or I'll fucking kill you! Fucking pervert..." with lots of muttering and more obscenities trailing off indecipherable.

I'm sitting there, making myself as small as possible with my headphones in, staring directly at my mobile phone, pretending to be absorbed by the whatever's on the screen, and trying not to get involved in any of this bullshit. But old man, who must have a death wish, leans over to me and says, "I wish I had a mobile, so I could call the cops on these two".

Way to go old man. Way to go. Lets antagonise two out of control bogans even more, and try to make me part of it. Thanks a fucking lot.

Of course bogan mum and bogan dad are now further enraged by old man.

"I'm gonna slit your throat you dirty old cunt. Try and call the police on me then!" screams bogan mum. Bogan dad chimes in with "I've been in jail fucker, I know how to fuck you up good and propper. Rip your fucking tongue out, cunt, for talking that shit to us".

I think at this stage old man worked out he had seriously gone a step too far with the bogans and leaped out of his seat and literally flew out the open doors at the next stop. Meanwhile, I'm worried that they're about to launch on me because he talked to me, but bogan dad turns round and says "Sorry about that fucker next to you. I hate cunts like that, hey?"

And that was the end of it. They continued to swear at each other and thier daughter all the way home, but no more threats of slitting throats or ripping out tongues. Just like a normal couple really.

They got off at the same stop as me where bogan dad said goodbye to me (like some sort of connection has been made), and bogan mum proceeded to duck into some one's front yard, pull down her pants and take a piss on their hydrangeas.

Classy as.

You have a lovely accent...

I've told you all before how I love accents, but for some strange reason, people keep telling me that I have a lovely accent. Seriously... what the fuck?

I grew up in Ipswich - which has a reputation for not being the most cultured city in Australia. I mean, have you heard Pauline Hanson speak? That's pretty much how 99% of the population talk.

After grade 12 I moved to Toowoomba for University. Toowoomba being a rather large town just on the verge of the country. Cowboy hats are all the rage in the T-bar, as is Lee Kernigan and incest.

So I really can't understand where the talk of a supposed accent comes from - my upbringing and formative years should have left me with some sort of country-bumkin-Cletus-like tonsorial twang. And I haven't travelled anywhere, so there's no way for me to pick up any inkling of another accent what so ever.

When I first got into call centres I had a few old women ask me where I grew up, I just assumed they were deaf and desperate for some sort of conversation. I also had one lady ask me if I was Jewish - and then proceeded to tell me that Hitler did the world a favour by killing so many of them. So I just cancelled her home insurance policy and prayed for a fire.

But that's another story...

Last year I was house sitting for my parents, who still live in Ipswich, and on three separate occasions I was asked about my accent. By the third occasion I must have been rather miffed at it all because I got shitty with the woman at the gym;

Gym Lady - "My, that's a lovely accent"
Me - "Sorry?"
GL - "Your accent, it's beautiful. Where are you from?"
Me - "Ipswich"
GL - "No, I mean, where did you grow up?
Me - "Ipswich"
GL - "There's no way you were raised in Ipswich"
Me - "Ah, yes I was."
GL - "No, no, no - you must have lived overseas for years"
Me - "Nope."
GL - "Are you sure?"
Me - "Pretty sure I'd remember living overseas"

And it went on for at least five minutes - she just couldn't believe that I was a local. Or a former local at least.

Then I even got it from my doctor the other day;

Doc - "So when will you get to see your family again?"
Me - "On the weekend"
Doc - "So you're flying out to see them?"
Me - "Ummmm"

He honestly thought they either were in Adelaide or in the UK.

What the hell people? Is everyone implying that I sound like a fucking snob with a plum in my mouth? Do I give off a pretentious, obnoxious attitude? I'm pretty sure I don't have any airs and graces about me... I prefer beer to wine, steak to foie gras, and I like to swear, fart and shoot pigs (well the last bit's a lie).

It doesn't really matter I suppose... as long as I don't develop one of those "gay" lisping accents I don't care.

You know what I mean.

Where's the rage?

Sorry readers, but I've been neglecting Zeke a bit of late. I've become very distracted - I'm actually working my butt off since returning to work, and my man has been taking up a lot of time too. And that is making me very happy indeed.

It's interesting though, when I do sit down to blog, I'm finding it hard to channel the "hate-filled little man" within. It makes writing my scathing, vitriolic, rants about life and culture quite difficult. I don't think I can write nice and fluffy.

It's funny what a little happiness can do to a person.

It's my Birthday...

Oh joy, I've turned another year older. I now fall into the 31-35 year old bracket on the "are you interested?" application on facebook. Ain't that something to be proud of?

I actually don't stress about aging. Turning 25 was a big deal for some reason, but turning 30 last year was a complete non-event. I just didn't give a shit. Didn't even go out for dinner or have a beer to celebrate.

This year however is slightly different. We had a massive pirate and prostitute party on Saturday night (well medium is more appropriate a term) where every one sat out side and froze around a slowly fading fireplace. I think it was way too cold for anyone to dress up as a pro, so we had lots of pirates (there's still 8 pirate swords left sitting on the couch).

Now that I fit into more clothes, I love dress up parties and I went all out for this one. We managed to find a gnarly looking fake full sleeve tattoo - Kat was gonna wear it, but I stole it, and I had a great fake parrot (named Patrice) and it looked rather fetching...


Apart from the cold, and the fact we ran out of fire wood, I hope everyone had a fun time.

And then for my actual Birthday (today) I got to wake up next to the awesome man I met last Tuesday night. He cooked me breakfast and just makes me so happy in general. Considering we only just met 6 days ago, but have had 5 dates in that time, I really hope he sticks around. He is making Benji so very happy.

And so the dance begins...

Tuesday night Kat and I went down to the KP (the Kedron Park Hotel for the non-locals) and enjoyed a great steak and a few quiet beers - it was a really nice evening, but unfortunately the few beers I had gave me a taste for more, and I ended up heading out to the Valley by myself.

And that my friends, is never a good idea.

Now, I have no issues about going out on the town alone. Most gay venues are super friendly and more often than not you'll bump into a drunken casual acquaintance and have a friend for the evening. The only problem I do find is that there is no one there that knows me well enough to tell me to slow down on the sambucca shots, or to tell me that guy really wasn't looking at me and to leave him alone before he calls security or to simply go home.

Many nights recently I have ended up alone and trashed at the Beat making out with many strangers and then getting depressed because no one wants me and then drinking more, having my jeans stolen (long story, may tell it one day) and spending a small fortune on vodka and redbull.

So it was with some trepidation that I decided to make an evening of it on Tuesday night - but away I went. It was bound to be busy as it was Ekka holiday on Wednesday and there were heaps of acts and events on around the place.

Sure enough I bumped into Jade, a random chick who I only know through drunken bar chats at the Beat, but is always happy to see me (I think its because I buy her a few drinks every time). And sure enough the night got very blurry after happy hour finished.

I do recall going up to Family, and paying my $18 to get in, and then being pissed that it wasn't busy (though a really hot dude did buy me a scotch) - so I quickly headed back to the Beat, and ended up pashing on with this rather tall hot looking guy for the remainder of the evening.

At closing time he says he's coming home with me, and we stumble off to find a taxi. What ensued when we got back to mine was actually a very very hot time (details will not be divulged), and when he left at 2:30 the next arvo, I quickly got his number and gave him mine, and asked him to call me some time.

And this is where the dance begins for Benji... I really liked this guy, but do I have to be the one to make the next move? Does that make me seem needy? Am coming on to strong if I text him the same day, or even the next day?

And what do I say in the text? Do I simply say "thanks" like it was some sort of business transaction or I'm simply thankful for any action I do get? Or do I make a funny little Benji quip to show him I have a sense of humour and potentially scare him off because my sense of humour is at best hard to work out? Or do I say what I'm thinking - "Do me now"?

So many questions, no easy answers.

And lets look at the facts of how we met - we were both trashed, both forgot each others names after the first kiss and we met at the Beat. Not the best possible way to start a relationship. Who says he is even looking for a relationship? He may have just wanted a root and never wants to see the drunken slurry he just hooked up with again.

Oh, but the gay gods were smiling on Benji on Wednesday afternoon - he texted first! On the same day! And after several texts back and forward over the last two days, we shall be having dinner and a movie sometime soon.

Fingers crossed... I'd really like this one to work out.

Don't look at me with your mouthful...

This may fall into the category of way too much information, but I really don't like it when guys look at me when they are giving me a blow job.

I know porn stars do it - the camera gets at the right angle and they look up with a mouthful and have that smouldering look on their face.

But when you do it, it's not hot at all. Especially when you think you're making the "I'm a sexy porn star" face, but in reality you look a bit retarded.

And please don't wiggle your eye brows while making that weird face - it just makes it even more unsexy. Your ears wiggle when you move those hairy things up and down, and that makes me want to laugh.

That would possibly kill the moment.

Don't get me wrong - eye contact during the act isn't a bad thing. It can be a very intense thing to look directly into someone's eyes while you're doing "it". Of course that requires a certain amount of flexibility for guys to achieve that position (think about it for a second).

But looking deep into someones' eyes really heightens the emotion and sense of connection of the person you're with. When you're in the moment and it all feels right, eye contact is an absolute necessity.

Oh dear. I'm feeling a bit funny now. I need a lie down.

(Pic from post secret)

Jesus wants me to be a pedestrian

I have no luck with cars. No luck at all. It maybe something to do with the fact that I run every car that I ever get my hands into the ground and do next to nothing to look after them.

Lets look at my sad history with vehicles over the years;

Orange XD Falcon - my first ever car. Bright orange hand-me-down from my brother (who got it from our grandfather) - I destroyed the transmission. Reapirs were more than the car was worth.

Gold Gemini - possibly my best car ever. Apart from my blowing the welsh plug on the Warrego highway one day I never had any issues with it. When I moved onto the commodore, I gave it to my brother-in-law and it lasted for many more years.

White Commodore -side swiped the carport two weeks after buying it, so it had a massive scratch down the passenger side that I never got around to fixing. I also killed the power steering, the fuel pump died, destroyed the radiator, then ran it up the back of a ute on the ICB two years ago 2 days after getting the radiator fixed. I got almost five years out of it. Washed once I think.

Grandma's Magna - for a loan vehicle, I had so many issues. Brakes went twice, ran out of petrol twice (damn petrol light came on two seconds before it actually stopped).

Red Wagon - this was the worst purchase ever. Went through three batteries in 6 months, the cv joints went, the front passenger door opened by itself going around corners if you didn't lock it, then I just blew up the engine. $800 purchase price, was sent to the wreckers 8 months later.

Blue Commodore (the current car) - there have been mechanical and human issues associated with this one. Apart from not paying the rego in time and getting caught driving on a suspended licence (I got to say hello to judge Judy over that incident), the brakes went not long after I bought it, and it is now wanting about another $1500 worth of work to get it back on the road.

So since March I have been doing lots and lots of walking and catching public transport everywhere. If it wasn't for Kat breaking her leg, and letting me drive her car while she's been off, I probably would have gone insane.

Jesus hates me for being gay. Oh and killing that cat one time.

Vous regardez encore meilleur nu

I just freaking love accents. Doesn't matter if it's a man or woman. If you have an accent I'm that little bit more interested in you.

I used to love getting Irish or Pommie temps in the call centre - we had two Irish girls this year with the best Irish twangs ever (couldn't for the life of me remember their names, so they were Blond Irish and Brown Irish). If only I was into women.

Sigh.

But an accent can sometimes be hard to negotiate and the meaning gets completely screwed up. I recently met up with a very nice (ie hot as all hell) French-Canadian guy, where the french accent was very very strong. What was possibly a very romantic/hot moment under the covers got lost in translation;

"Your bitches is hot?" - ummmm?
"You take my pictures?" - er sorry?
"Um... I like your muscles on your chest, they are quite large, yes?"

Oh - my big chest is hot? Why thank you.

I also dated a Swiss guy briefly and he spoke four different languages - French, German, Italian and English. During the act he would whisper things in French in my ear. Hot, hot, hot.

For all I know he could have been saying "I wish you would trim your toe nails" but it so was god-damn hot, I just didn't care.

Hmmm... now I'm pursuing a guy in my office building that has an accent. He must be South American or something.

God I need a man.

Damn you Laura Linney

Love Actually is on TV again. I just happened to switch over as Laura Linney's character manages to snare the hot man from her office (you know, the hot hot Italian looking guy).

It kinda makes me happy... no not in a horny happy way, but in that idealistic "Wow, no matter how much of a social retard you may be, you can find a really beautiful person to hold you," kind of way.

Yeah... Benji's feeling a bit needy tonight.

So They're making out, and its all hot and heavy - even some boob action from Ms Linney. Oh and that guy has the best body, when the phone rings. Its her brother, and she can't not talk to him.

And that ends the night of passion for Ms Linney. In fact, it pretty much ends her entire story arc in the film.

And that makes me sad. She's the only character that doesn't get a resolution, doesn't get closure. She just goes on as if nothing has happened.

So that moment of happiness, the moment of true potential for a happy life is fleeting and can be easily taken away. Never to be repeated.

Kinda feels like my life right now.

I don't do Divas

Taste in music is a very personal thing. I'm sure people listen to my choice of music at parties and think "What the hell is this?". Especially when "Wannbe" by the Spice Girls pops up on the random play list (at least it's not the fucking Venga Boys, hey Kat?).

In recent months I've really gotten back into my high school play lists... loving Bush,Rage Against the Machine, Radio Head etc. The Classics. Pretty much anything loud and screamy that makes me want to work out harder at the gym. But then again I also like the Ministry of Sound mixes and anything with a good beat.

So your choice in music is your choice - I don't judge. Well most of the time.

The problem is I just don't seem to have a very "gay" taste in music. I just don't get how most of the gays seem to love their "Diva's", or pop princesses or just the freaking camp stuff that they play at the gay bars. Brittney, Celine, Kylie, Mariah etc etc etc. In fact it appalls me when I hear/read some of the favourites listed under music on people's profiles.

Case in point - I went on a blind date a few weeks ago, and it was all going along quite nicely. Good conversation about lots of different things. Work. Family. Leisure activities. Then we get to music. "So what's top on your iPod play lists?" I ask.

"Celine is getting the most play right now," (I'm sure beer came out my nose), "and Whitney gets up there a bit too."

I stumbled, paused and managed to recover. "Really? I'm more into Nine Inch Nails, Bush - a bit louder and faster."

The response - "Who?"

Needless to say, there was no second date.