Dish Pig of the Apocalypse
As we return from a nice visit to a national park I'm deteriorating. We're driving past the procession of shop fronts on Sydney Road and I recite the names of as many of the shops as I can out loud, letting my friends know the bush therapy hasn't gone real well. The country air was an attempt to calm me down but all I did was perch on the edge of a waterfall, imagining I was a hero and giving my friends the idea they were about to witness a suicide that would be kind of sort of their fault-ish.
I wasn't going to jump from the waterfall, I was too busy posing. I seemed to expend much of my mental illness energy on posing, but then again I had no idea how to behave. I remember wandering the streets of Melbourne and it being very important that I held my face a certain way, like my facial expression was crucial. I was probably only guaranteeing nobody mistook me for a sane person. I mean, it's not like you can talk to every person in the street to let them know you're fucked. You've got a face, use it crazy person!
I guess being disappointed in people is kind of my thing. I know I was annoying but: after the waterfall one of my friends accepts my offer of a car- my car for fucks sake- and drives it away to Queensland. Who accepts cars from crazy people? Anyway, maybe let's not get too carried away with sympathy for my long suffering friends.
One mate used to drop by to get me out of the house and his idea of an outing was to go look at bicycles in bicycle shops. Here's a tip: your mental friends don't need to look at bicycles. I used to wander around in a crazed dream state but I never sunk so low as to find bicycles interesting. Once while standing there looking at bicycles and waiting to die of boredom he asked my opinion of the shithouse singer James Blunt. This triggered a twenty minute rant I still stand by.
When you're mental you get to listen to the worst music in the world as you wash dishes in hot, angry kitchens. I remember my last day in a kitchen. The last day I could stand. That worthless fuck James Blunt is whining, the dishwasher is broken again so I'm doing everything by hand and aware I am a slave. I am also aware my mother has been in the country for three weeks and has made no attempt to contact me. I know I am washing dishes for a piece of shit boss because when I was a boy my mother visited a clairvoyant who told her she would travel the world three times. I know I am angrily recovering from being nuts because my mother abandoned me because someone who wasn't even a real gypsy told her to. I spent an entire shift crying pure blood in the knowledge that a pretend gypsy stole my childhood.
I mean, come on!
I wasn't going to jump from the waterfall, I was too busy posing. I seemed to expend much of my mental illness energy on posing, but then again I had no idea how to behave. I remember wandering the streets of Melbourne and it being very important that I held my face a certain way, like my facial expression was crucial. I was probably only guaranteeing nobody mistook me for a sane person. I mean, it's not like you can talk to every person in the street to let them know you're fucked. You've got a face, use it crazy person!
I guess being disappointed in people is kind of my thing. I know I was annoying but: after the waterfall one of my friends accepts my offer of a car- my car for fucks sake- and drives it away to Queensland. Who accepts cars from crazy people? Anyway, maybe let's not get too carried away with sympathy for my long suffering friends.
One mate used to drop by to get me out of the house and his idea of an outing was to go look at bicycles in bicycle shops. Here's a tip: your mental friends don't need to look at bicycles. I used to wander around in a crazed dream state but I never sunk so low as to find bicycles interesting. Once while standing there looking at bicycles and waiting to die of boredom he asked my opinion of the shithouse singer James Blunt. This triggered a twenty minute rant I still stand by.
When you're mental you get to listen to the worst music in the world as you wash dishes in hot, angry kitchens. I remember my last day in a kitchen. The last day I could stand. That worthless fuck James Blunt is whining, the dishwasher is broken again so I'm doing everything by hand and aware I am a slave. I am also aware my mother has been in the country for three weeks and has made no attempt to contact me. I know I am washing dishes for a piece of shit boss because when I was a boy my mother visited a clairvoyant who told her she would travel the world three times. I know I am angrily recovering from being nuts because my mother abandoned me because someone who wasn't even a real gypsy told her to. I spent an entire shift crying pure blood in the knowledge that a pretend gypsy stole my childhood.
I mean, come on!
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