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August 27, 2005
Another question, though a bit more mundane than the last: is the header of this page showing up? It isn't for me.

Thanks for your answers concerning, um, Russian Roulette. Next week I'll ask a question about Pipe Bombs or something, just to keep things fresh.

Tomorrow is the last Uni open day I'll be going to - LaTrobe. It's my second preference after Journalism at RMIT in the city. Essentially I have to get above 87 or I'll end up doing Arts or something, and hoping I can transfer over. That isn't all bad, I guess a year studying politics would do me no harm, but another year at Uni means another 10,000 bucks to be leeched from me over time. And then, of course, there's no guarantee that I'll be able to transfer into Journalism.

This Uni stuff is tricky business, and it's giving me a headache.

August 20, 2005
I have a question (well, two), it's to do with me trying to write a story. Do most people know what Russian Roulette is? Are there any films/books where a game of such is played?

August 17, 2005
A Nightmare Vision of The Future
or
How Things Will Be When I Go To Uni*



Le Driver: "Ah, look at all my free time, admire my well manicured eyebrows! I am posting something quite excellent on my blog. Federal politics, of course."



Le Driver: "Shut-up guys. I'm thinking about my successful blog and savouring this Chai tea as I do so."



Le Driver: "Fine, Proffesor, if you can't teach print journalism then I will! Here are the average number of words in a Herald Sun article. Count them while I blog."



Le Driver: "Sell all the stock, you bastard! Sell, sell, sell! I don't have time for this. I have a blog to maintain."



Le Driver: "You're hilarious. Let's go out, get tanked, update our slightly Buffy-esque clothing, and then blog about it!"



Professor to Le Driver: "Now, I've gotta say, we weren't going to pass you, seeing as you completed none of the set coursework. But, hell, we loved your blog! Congrats, Le Driver, you've graduated with honors!"



What my writing will do to Michael Moore in 10 years.**

* I like to think so.
** Prevent him from aging at all.

August 13, 2005


What did you learn today?

An 'Emo' is...

You will have seen these types around the place. Now you have a name for them.

And here is the last section of my story. After this bit, I stopped. It's a shame I couldn't show you any of that because the plot of the story is that the main character goes into a coma - which, it turns out, is a city like and unlike her own. That's the interesting part.

Anyway, I've got to think of a better story to write this year. I'm not very good with ideas.

5

Rowena’s feet were covered in blisters. She was hung-over, and hadn’t slept, and figured she must look pretty awful. In one hand she carried those strictly ornamental shoes and in the other her purse: she was hoping to flag down a taxi and be home before her husband got back from that business trip to Hong Kong and realized she’d spent the night in a luxurious hotel with his lawyer. There weren’t any taxis around, and her mobile was flat. Rowena realized she’d need to find a public phone, though the prospect of wandering around the city at three in the morning wasn’t particularly attractive. There was a train station a few blocks down, she remembered that, and there would definitely be a phone in the area.

6

When Rowena first saw Viv she assumed that the young woman was homeless and had decided to sleep here. It wasn’t until she spotted the stagnant lightning-bolt of blood running down the inside of Viv’s arm, and the needle in her lap, that she realized the girl had taken heroin. Her nerves began to fire, and it felt as if someone had grabbed the back of her stomach and turned it inside out like a doggy-bag. She’s taken heroin but she’s just sleeping. Rowena crouched down to look at Viv’s slouching body, hair was covering most of her face and she couldn’t be sure if she was breathing or not. “Hey, are you all right? Are you OK?’” There was no response. Rowena hesitated a moment and shook the young girl’s shoulder, but her muscles were lax and her head merely tilted more to one side. Maybe she’s dead. The thought that she might have stumbled upon someone freshly overdosed on heroin turned her stomach further and made her feel like she might throw up. She put two shaking fingers to the top of Viv’s neck and felt for a pulse, and waited and tried to calm the pounding of her own heart so as to hear better and finally detected a weak throb against her fingers and when she held her fingers under the girl’s nose felt the faint flow of air and realized she was still alive. She took her hand away and tried to think what you were supposed to do next. People who’ve overdosed can die by choking on their own vomit, she remembered. You were supposed to put them on their side in a certain way so that if they did vomit it would go out and not in. Rowena picked up the butt end of the needle and cast it aside and became really worried about contracting AIDS somewhere in this whole ordeal but overcame those thoughts and moved the rest of Viv’s things aside and laid her on her side and wondered how you were supposed to keep her from always flopping onto her back again. There was nobody else around and she would have loved some help, someone who knew all about this kind of thing and would share the responsibility, but it was just her and this person who may very-well be about to die.

Rowena managed to keep her on her side by making the leg that was directly on the ground crooked so it acted as a support. She stepped back and everything was as right as she could get it and rushed to the pay-phone, not to call a taxi but to call an ambulance.

August 11, 2005
Tonight I'll be doing a lot of dead-boring philosophy homework, but tomorrow I'm off to 'Battle of the Bands' at the Preston Town Hall to watch Em's band 'The Indifferent' compete. You are invited (if you are young and hip).

3

Viv shut her eyes for a moment and opened them. She was able to see more easily in the gloom, and bent down against the wall. Something smelt disgusting, and a wave of nausea came and went. She ran a shaking hand through stringy blonde hair and grabbed the protruding edges of the brick with her fingers, laboriously dragging it out and onto the ground with a thud. She gathered up her stash and shoved it in her coat pocket and wiped the sweat from her cheeks and wanted to slide the brick back into place but didn’t have the strength or coherency of thought to do so.

The bus had broken down about half-way. It was shuddering at all the stops and eventually it gave out and the bus driver assured everyone that there would be a replacement along in a few minutes but it took about twenty and by that time she knew she should have jumped off because that tugging and niggling feeling was getting really bad and making her shake and sweat but she’d been through worse and she wasn’t going to give in, she was going to the river.

There was a perfect place there that was just hers, for Viv’s use only, because she was the only one who used it and maybe the only one who knew about it. It was high up and secluded with a view of the water covered in light like an oil-spill and all the crowded buildings mourned the loss of it. It was the hotel that made it perfect; tall and bathed in golden light all over, every window was always lit up from within, as if there were some perpetual celebration taking place at all hours of the day and night. It was the place of the rich and famous, and she’d picked up brochures with pictures of the rooms that looked too good and too expensive to be true. It was a monument to the good life, the best life, and the focal point of all her dreams. She imagined herself dressed in finery, with make-up and jewels and white arms sitting sprawled along a sun-bathing chair with a glass of the most expensive wine looking out over the city lights and being twenty-stories up in the heavens instead of down there. She was there alone as a movie-star or the wife of a man in a sharp suit, it didn’t matter. She was there.

In reality, Viv was moving past a train-station and her teeth were jittering and the heroin in her pocket was getting heavier and more substantial and she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She knew her luck was gone when she stopped putting forward internal reasons not to hit up now and began to think of reasons why she should. There will always be other times. There will always be more. There’s nobody around. You can’t last long enough. It’s not worth it to wait. Then she was sitting against yellow tiles and setting up and the stuff was in, in, in, and then the light went out.

August 06, 2005
The Unkown Interests of John Howard



He has written books on:

Southern Gays!



Mountain Biking!



Carryin' On In The Lesbian And Gay South!



The Unkown Interests Of Tony Abbott!



Kringle!



Danger Guys!



Zombie Surf Commandos From Mars!



Cosmic Boy Vs. Mezmo Head!



The Unknown Interests of Peter Costello!



He has written books on:

The Real World of Sherlock Holmes!



The Most Influential Irish People of Our Time!



The Life of Leopold Bloom!



Do these past-times have anything to do with the...

Unkown Interests of George W. Bush?

Reading!

August 05, 2005
.. just tried a Vanilla Laté from a sample packet we got in the mail. Basically just tasted like a sweet drink. I'm happy with a decaf capuccino. Decaf because I'm 'sensitive to caffeine', which means rather than being pepped up by coffee I just freak out.

In the absense of any real blog post here is another section of that story...


2

She had a few dollars left over and decided to pass up dinner for a trip into the city.

The lights in the Night-Rider were blue and surreal and Viv wondered why it was so important that people didn’t hit up on buses that they would make the interior gloomy like that, so that everyone was tinted blue like a corpse. People seemed scared of her kind of thing; they’d rather travel around in a big glowing pill than see a spoon or a needle. Those things were familiar to her, they were no big deal.

The ticket machine had read 12:17. Her cravings were niggling and tugging at her and she was thinking a lot about this new Asian stuff; her body was clearly wondering why she had heroin resting in her pocket but not in her system and growing increasingly frenzied about it, but the money had been hard to come by and the stuff looked promising and she wasn’t going to waste it in some stinking alley-way.

The city was her favorite place. In the suburbs, if you were grimy and unkempt people stared and it was the worst thing in the world. Viv was born in the suburbs, and she would go around thinking she was just another one of them until they looked at her like that and the spell was broken. In the city, if you looked homeless, people would not stare at you: they’d go at great lengths to look the other way, or skirt around, or cross to the other side of the street. This had been most evident when she’d tried begging a few times; there’s nothing more reviled by city people than a homeless person asking for money. If they justified this hatred by reasoning that they would only be contributing to an alcohol or drug problem they were partially right – but if they had any idea what withdrawal felt like, they’d empty their pockets.

When begging, the ability city people have to put on the blinkers is your first and biggest obstacle. Most of the time Viv wasn’t begging, and in those instances, she didn’t mind it at all. She felt like a passive observer of something intricate and beautiful that worked like clockwork. In the day, the city was crawling with people. At night, when the people have gone home or have drawn themselves up in buildings, the lights come out and reign over everything. Sometimes, in the limbo between midnight and morning, it seemed as if she was the only one left in that whole vast expanse: it was hers for the taking. Folded against the window in the back of a Night-Rider bus, she was headed towards that place.

August 03, 2005
I always find it disappointing to load up a blog that I read regularly to find the same post staring at me each time. I check back once every day. Once every few days. Once every week. Then I forget for a while. I feel that you must be at that stage with this blog. So, if you're reading this now, I'm glad you decided to check back.

I have to get an ENTER of approximately 94 to do the course I want to do. I'm not sure how well I have to perform to get this, so I've been feeling bad every time I don't get an A+. I've been getting quite a lot of A's lately. I'm not unhappy because I feel like I should get A+'s all time time - god, A's are good marks. I just want to do that damn course, and I don't know what kind of class results get you a 94 ENTER. A+'s all the time, or what? Let's hope there's room for a few A's.

So, essentially I'm freaking out about school. I've been finding distractions to prevent me from doing homework, and most relevant to you, from blogging. I've decided I'm not going to do that Corporate Social Responsibility essay. There's not enough time. I guess I could just do some honest work to earn that $2000... Fat chance.

There's a novella writing competition that comes up in November I can enter. The prize is $3000 bucks (see how much I like the idea of winning money?). Last year I was thinking about entering. I got a few thousand words in. Here is the first section:

1

She could see Rob and some other guy she’d never met hanging around the stairwell. He was sprawled across a few steps smoking something and the other guy was leaning against the wall and yapping at a joke Rob had said, but she didn’t remember Rob as being funny. He was dead serious.

Guys like that made her nervous. She never had any idea what kind of stuff they’d been up to that morning, or the night before, or who’d they’d done deals with. She shoved her hands deeper into her trouser pockets and picked up the pace, and the smears and stains of graffiti on the walls began to pass at a slow blur until she approached the stair-well and came to a halt.

Rob turned towards her and pulled at his messy cigarette. “You lost?”

“I hope not, mate. I’ve bought from you before, don’t know if you remember.”

Rob shook his head and put the cigarette back to his lips so it hung there. “Doesn’t really matter if I remember you. What are you after?”

“One.”

He started picking around the inside of his puffy jacket and cigarette ash toppled down his front. “Thirty-dollars a cap. This is new stuff from Asia.”

Rob produced a little zip-lock bag and pulled himself up off the stairs. His friend followed him over.

“What’s your name?” said Rob.

“Viv.”

“Right, ‘Viv’, a cap will be thirty bucks.” He said the name as if he thought it was a joke.

“Can you tell me anything else about it? I’ve been using that twenty-five dollar stuff…”

“It’s not too strong.” Rob held the bag up to the sun-light. The heroin was a pinky-brown. “Just right for you, Viv. It’s good stuff, trust me.”

Viv shelled out thirty-dollars and placed the bag in the pocket that had been warm with money. “Ten ‘til eleven at night, still?”

“Yeah, same deal. Sunday is my day off. Go out and get more smack to sell.”

Rob’s company thought this was hilarious. His face screwed up and he laughed like a seal.

Viv shoved her hands back in her pockets and ran her fingers over the plastic. “Yeah, well, if this is good as you say it is, I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Seeya tomorrow then.” Rob pulled in on his cigarette and turned back to the stairwell. His friend followed, and Viv walked back out past all the graffiti and grime and into the startling night.

I'll post another bit next time, unless I get insulted by several hundred people. I need an idea for what to write this year. Please comment with ideas so I can plagiarise you.

Also, Pat in my english class got hit by a truck on friday night and died on saturday. I didn't know him well but I still felt sad about it and a bit numb when I heard. Not many people knew who he was, and had to have him pointed out in the year 12 group photo, which is on the wall in the foyer. There will be lots of fingerprints around his face now.