The Summer TV of Blogs

I have suffered from writers-block during this week. Being a blogger that disapproves of non-ironic self indulgence, I already hate myself for the sentence that precedes this one.

The problem with writing this blog in particular is that it is very difficult to be serious, as those who have read previous posts will see this as a precedent of what this blog is. It is surely not appropriate to pour your emotions and worries into the same medium that you once pointed out to readers, "Not all gays have fannies." Sometimes the truth is better left untold (apparently it's correct, they mostly have penises).

Due to this writer's block, I have decided to cleanse my drafts folder of all the things (much like uni) that I have started but never finished in the last few weeks. It's like a compilation album put together of b-sides and rarities that were never mastered or released because it wasn't deemed good enough.

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The weekend took a turn for the worst after a large group of men in bright-coloured denim cut-offs stole my ID and important cards. This conclusion was drawn when I arrived home from the Good Vibrations Festival to find them missing. Although I didn't see anyone take them (men in cutoffs are notoriously good pick pockets, they also have beautiful tans).
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Sitting at work this evening I was notably impressed when the radio informed me that a 72 year old indigenous man had ran away from RPA Hospital - he was admitted only moments before, after suffering a heroin overdose.
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The Man With A Fish's Head sat alone, staring into his beer, his hands propped up against his gills. He could vaguely hear the noise of the Queen Of The Nile mid-feature, making someone a little bit richer and someone else a big bit poorer. The thought of this didn't sadden him any further as The Man With A Fish's Head was a staunch capitalist - most people with non-human body parts usually are.

Draining the last of his beer, The Man With A Fish's Head sat contemplating the ashtray sitting slightly off-centre on the round table, that, tonight, was a table for one. Would he walk out into the main bar and get himself another drink? Someone would probably buy him one anyway. The funny thing about being a novelty was that everyone at your local pub smiles politely, the staff have your drink of choice (in his case, Reschs) waiting for him seconds after walking through the door. Sometimes, people even buy you a drink (usually VB or New though, idiots). But for all the pleasantries and inclusion in fellow-drinkers rounds, The Man With A Fish's Head always ended up sitting alone at a table built for two or three.
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Wanker Type 1:
Wanker Type 1 (WT1) is in his mid-30s, badly dressed, shocking hair, no friends, hates his job (in IT)/life/you and drinks 15-20 schooners a day for which he would accompany each with 2-3 cigarettes.
WT1 still manages to stare down at you through his nose every day and sneer at your attempts at friendliness. WT1 is so happy being and unhappy alcoholic
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Not quite, but I am working on it. I was told once by a lecturer that journalists should not write in the first person unless they have been writing for 15 (and that numbers below 20 should be spelled in letters) years. I also learnt that many articles written in the first person can come across a bit self indulgent and arrogant. Then I learnt that a collection of crude paragraphs usually starting with "Oh my God I was so pissed on the weekend" and ending with "but I didn´t pick up" written on a blog are not an "article" and certainly do not make me a "journalist".

Shorter and of lower quality than expected, no kudos.

Having only eaten/drunk soup pre-work this evening, I made a trip to City Convenience to buy a pie. On my way back through the lobby my Little Security Guard Friend (not to be confused with Little Hoodrat Friend) engaged me in some conversation:
"Where'd ya get food from at this hour?"
"City Convenience," I replied. "Not a huge number of options open at this hour," I added, thoughtfully"
"Jeez, they charge like wounded dogs don't they?"
"Yeah."
"You see, you don't buy your cokes there! How much did you pay for it?"
"I'm not sure, I didn't really pay attention."
"Nah. If you go down to the dock, they're only $1.40"
"OK?"
"Sometimes the bloke'll even sling you a free one... Yep, the dock is where to get your cokes from."
"Alright thanks I'll..."
"Yeah... on level 24 they're $1.80, and they're only $1.40 at the dock."
"Thanks."

Suitably underwhelmed with the conversation I returned to level 27 to eat my pie, which was underwhelming, suitably.

Not so underwhelming was the latest on my scanner, which informs me that a POI (person of interest) has "lit his own hair on fire before absconding into the night." Apparently this was the only reason he was a POI in the first place, previous to that he was simply a man in Kings Cross. It is funny how the circumstances of a night can change you. It's a bit like when my friend Wags drunk too much, wet his pants, and wasn't allowed on the boat for our year 11 formal. It actually isn't at all, I'm just interested to know if Wags reads this.

(newsworthy soliloquy)
I pity any ex-employees of the UNSW School of Anatomy who did not "sexually interfere" with body parts.