A Very Happy Un-Birthday to You.

Last night I became Candy - a sixteen-year-old lesbian looking to find her way into a drag show after hours. I was clad in my lime-green, floor-length coat and my sequin-covered vest looking to score some amyl and free beer. So naturally when the beautiful blonde woman on stage asked if it was anyone's birthday I piped up - she sang me Happy Birthday lesbian-style (with her hands down her throat) and promptly told me to walk to the bar, where the 'lovely barman' poured me a shot of jager because it wasn't my birthday. Projectile Josh, The Hussy, BigFoot and our latest protege Forceful Consent were all in fine form - not many of us really able to take our eyes off the 'go-go-dancers' in their glittery underwear or s&m rihanna-inspired gimp outfits.

Forceful Consent is a new addition to the murder of misfits that I seem to meet and befriend. She's another Perth-kid and has approximately three dance moves: 'come hither', 'go away' and 'rape' - which she prefers to keep PC and call 'Forceful Consent'. We collected her after she had spent the evening wandering the streets of Brunswick, seemingly walking in the wrong direction the whole time.

Anyway by this time I'm fairly inebriated and meet this ridiculous dancer on the d-floor. He introduces himself to me with a name that sounds like 'Lesley'. For some reason he's not wearing a top, just a cardigan - paired with a pair of tight leather cut-offs. He has red hair and is styling the 'quiff' hair-cut that seems so trendy amongst young gays. He bends his knees and lowers his back to the ground, gyrating  against my leg which he has wedged between his. He smells of sweat, and some non-de-script chemical. I quickly aim for the toilet because I'm fucking busting. Not being able to figure out if the toilets are unisex I just use whichever door is closest. When I get out there's a gaggle of girls talking make-up and boys, and as I make my way to the sink they all seem to disappear until it's just me an a beautiful blonde girl removing her top. She apoligises when I turn around and I have absolutely no problem with this girl removing her clothing next to the sink.

Heading out to the D-floor I run into Leslie again - we dance for a while and decide to go out for a smoke. Leslie's name is really Jesse and he's an interpretive dancer from Cairns. He lives in a warehouse around the corner, and lesbians tore off his shirt at Orlando. He came with the blonde-topless-girl. We went inside and Jesse handed me a small black bottle - I sniffed and smelt the chemical I had smelled before. I inhaled using both nostrils and viola! Amyl. I'm not kidding. I actually spent my night sniffing poppers every ten minutes in order to maintain a high and avoid an unbelievably painful headache. What's more I was conned into stealing $10 from Bigfoot to buy what was remaining and spend the rest of my night eating macdonalds and talking macro-economic theory with aid from amyl. Needless to say I was royally pissed off.

The rest of my weekend was spent either trawling second-hand shops on Sydney rd to find a fluro fanny-pack or buying raffle tickets in order to win a white-croqueted rug (and cover it in red-wine stains) from the yarnandcrafts festival at Brunswick town-hall. I met the Linguist's grandmother. We bonded. I ate pie.

Hope you guys had equally as eventful un-birthdays too,

Evilboy.

People who make me feel little #2

I've been reading a cooking blog that has made me feel entirely useless whilst using an oven. To be honest I don't think I've used our oven more than once (or twice if you count packet-chips) and the only thing I'm capable of baking is a Donna Hay chocolate and raspberry pudding. It's known for being pretty fucking fabulous, but I think I'm incapable of baking like this woman.

Her name is Rosie, she buys vintage home-wares and she has two beautiful children. After spending a girls night out (which I have done more than once in a month, believe it or not) talking about children and child-birth, I feel as though she's a good candidate for this post.

I often wonder why I continue to live the life the way I do when there are prettier and more dignified ways to exist. I just did a round-a-bout on my 'cocaine chair' (a big white swivel desk chair that I like to pretend is my drug-dealer chair) and found approximately four dirty dishes (courtesy of ikea) and an half-empty packet of fantales (which break my teeth every time I try to get through one). Also there is a vacuum cleaner (which I did use!) and numerous piles of dirty clothing. I feel as though if my life was more like Rosie's I would be:

a) far more productive,
b) a hot ma-ma
c) capable of producing a meal from ingredients
d) able to breast feed
e) an entrepreneur
f) happier.

I know happiness is all impossible to define and that I will probably look back at these days as the glory days, but if I could just see my floor life would be far easier to comprehend.

I'm in the process of writing Rosie an email telling her all of this. In a manner that doesn't seem to stalker-esque or trashy.

Pterodactyl noises WILL fill the void.

Have you ever had that feeling that you're so confused you could shout and scream?

I'm sitting at my messy desk looking at copies of Deviant Love (Freud), A Biography of Georges Bataille, Story of O and a book titled Masochism and the Self. I've now spent three hours trying to understand the relationship between sex, ek-static (yes, spelt like this), death and God. I actually did scream, as well as making that pterodactyl noise some of you know I make so adeptly. I've digressed to dancing to daggy Savage Garden songs and searching google images of Foucault to stick on my wall.

Some of the things that have stuck in my mind are: "the corpse is the truth of the biological individual, its consummate superfluity" and "I think as a girl takes off her dress. At the extremity of its movement, thought is indecency, even obscenity." Both Georges Batailles - if any of you know any more than this please let me know.

Also a quick message to you all: if you're ever in a bind, binge drinking is always the answer.

Peace,

Evilboy.

This week is going better than normal. This is why:

- I cleaned my room this afternoon for the first time in six months. I found: A vintage cigarette tin given to me on my birthday that was in my chest of drawers, a wine-stained copy of Story of O that I actually need for essay-writing fun, five empty tobacco pouches (I tried to combine the remaining into one cigarette, but apparently I had already tried that. There is also none left in the bottom of my bag), a copy of some poetry that was due back at the library months ago, scales and many items of clothing that I thought lost.

- Even thought I'm $60 in debt to Blockbuster, when I take my DVDs back they will halve the fines! (no questions asked)

- It is winter, but not cold enough to ditch my new fingerless gloves. Crocheted by the third fastest crocheter in Australia of 2009. (yeah, I've got connections...)

- I finished all six seasons of The Office. To be honest it got boring after Pam and Jim started dating. The lack of sexual tension was a downer.

- I tried explaining Foucault to my housemate and it made sense to me (but not him). 500 words down and many many more to attempt.

- SisterAl bought me lunch and gave me three cigarettes.

- I cleared my debt to The Melbourne Uni library.

- I discovered www.academia.edu now I can facebook stalk other people's tutors as well as my own! (for the record my current tutor's fb profile is private..)

Because of all of these things I am now considering the 'writing book' option for my future. Of course the offer for a $200 'impressive thinker' review is still on the table.

Tween

I'm watching a hillary duff movie high and it's somewhat exciting. Sometimes I think I'm a tween - you know Miley Cyrus and crushes on Justin Bieber. I watched that proactive add that he was in and kind of felt a bit turned on. He's all fresh and bright eyed, or bushy and bright tailed or whatever the phrase entails. I would post comments on celebrities' facebook walls telling Britney how talented she is and Lady Gaga how much she inspires me. The other day I watched some youtube video of her crying and started concocting a letter to her in my head about how fabulous she is and to feel better soon. Then I had a daydream about her turning up at my door looking all nonchalant and me making her a cup of green tea that I stole from the Hussy because I can't afford my own. We would talk about our neuroses and she would give me a hug and tell me that my letter really spoke to her on a level that she can't seem to find in her super-star world. We would share a joint and talk gender and religion for a while, then she would pay for me to travel with all of her tours as a self-esteem booster.

I feel as though this would be a more productive way of spending my time - plus I probably wouldn't have to pay rent, or buy booze or pay for food. Technically I currently don't do any of those things, but at some point in the future being Lady Gaga's self-esteem booster would be a good opportunity for me to use my degree to do good.

I've been reading a lot about future prospects studying gender studies and as it turns out there isn't that much I'm qualified to do. Here are my current prospects:

1. Finish an undergrad degree that has so far taken me seven semesters to get half-way through. (usually it takes six semesters to graduate)
2. Be Lady Gaga's right-hand genderqueer.
3. Move to Chile, become a drug mule (like projectile-Josh's Mum was) and work my way up to owning a quarter of South America's cocaine industry. From there I become President-of-the-world and legalise Marijuana. From there I buy a hemp-paper company. Then (naturally) I become a tycoon - an entrepreneur, a monopoliser of life.
4. Write a book. About plastic. Pay a reviewer $200 to call me an impressive thinker. Refrain from eating for approximately one week until people star buying my book.
5. Study Retail Management at Victoria University. Work as a manager in a music-store.
6. Hire a terrible song-writer and produce music myself using garage-band. Date Justin Bieber. Receive crippling hate-mail from fellow tweens and have a nervous break down.

So much to do, so little time