Kick out the jams, motherfuckers!

Not actually me, just a photo I stole from the net

Love is saved? I don’t know, but I think I’ve moved on to a world where people don’t emo out over unattainable things from years ago. I went to a mini-‘party’ on Friday, and didn’t end up brushing my teeth or changing my clothes or going home again until one o’clock on a Sunday afternoon in my cold, cold student-ish apartment. As I drove the winding, precipice-based backroad from Wodonga to Beechworth with my great ex-stoner mate in tow He came to me, a guardian angel fairy with filthy socks and a ciggie hanging out of his three-day growth bearded mouth. He was still wearing a ballet dancer’s leotard and had pinkish wings fluttering out behind him, but He carried his masculinity with pride and I wouldn’t have crossed him on a drunken walk away from a pub on a puke-and-fist-fest Saturday night in Melbs.

“Here’s the deal man,” He said to me, “adults don’t skitz about love, they don’t even fall in love anymore.” I listened as my mate in the passenger seat was blissfully unaware of the angel fairy’s existence. “You study and then you’ll get a job, and after that you’ll be so tired and your emotions will be so blunted that you’ll have long ago forgotten about the unattainable.”

“Nuts to that,” I replied, “I’m Peter Pan, ain’t never gonna grow up, even when I’m married my wife will be exasperated by my kiddish ways. I’ll pull my cheek lining to simulate masturbation noises like a thirteen-year old and she’ll wonder what she got herself into. Besides, studying sucks, it’s not relevant to anything.”

“Whatevs,” He replied in his computer-literate, Gen Y way, “but don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” Then He fluttered off to warmer climes.

My ex-stoner mate managed to intrigue every single female in the greater Albury-Wodonga area without quite managing to take the final step with any of them, but he had a brain and was disposed to losing it to alcohol every so often, as should happen. I was apathetic, but had danced on a table for a few seconds as part of an academic experiment and my grudging reconciliation with facebook had found some long-lost friends. Now I was strolling into a girl’s house in Beechworth who I had never spoken to, but I knew all the people and this year I had disposed myself to having one or two laughs despite my lack of an x-factor, a certain sexlessness that my suaveness and composure generally made up for.

In the house there were four guys now, but one was a weird gay guy and another was with his long-term girl partner (“I warned ya”, the fairy/angel breathed in my ear with breath that reeked distinctly of Crown Lager), making the odds somewhat in our favour. If only I’d done something to stand out over the year, but no matter how many zany moments come about through my initiatives it was nothing doing. I can occasionally see the looks that women give my mate, and think to myself that I really should learn how to talk to people one of these days. Even so, the tone had been set months ago; any hook-ups after all this time would have been a tad incestuous.

In the corner there was a girl making out passionately with a hippo, and another on roller skates who was balancing a jug of beer on her breasts. Actually the fairy had sanitised that scene too. There was no hippo-pashing and barely had me and my ex-stoner mate been there an hour that they started watching movies at 11pm and the party, such as it was, was apparently already over. The hostess likes dancing, and so do I, and we each vaguely know that the other does, but despite the shared knowledge she would have turned a cold shoulder had I dared try dancing with her. God I hate Australia.

The fairy/angel in filthy socks reappeared and said, “Intense emotions have no place within these walls, son. You’re an adult now, the only thing left for you as a guy is drunkenness and maybe drunken anger. I’m off to give oral sex to my girlfriend now.” He tapped his ciggie into an ashtray and fluttered off once more.

We snuck some bears into Transformers 2 in Albury the next afternoon (spelling? Whoops, beers). There were a bunch of kids in the theatre. The chick serving popcorn had been a student in my Year 10 French class a few months ago but didn’t see me. She has some great genes floating around her pool – the brains, the artistic ability and the looks. Meanwhile I was teaching some language that I didn’t completely know and that barely gets used anymore, but by God it’s still beautiful. Il a fait l’amour au concierge. He made love to the concierge. Who said romance is dead ?

Transformers 2 sucked balls, but apparently most people eat that shit up. I don’t get the world sometimes. I stayed sober enough to drive a couple of people home, then crashed at my mate’s place. We watched a TV show about nerds who had no sex appeal and were getting advice from pick up masters on how to talk to women. The fairy/angel appeared once more, this time with a fresh ciggie, and whispered in my ear with his Crown Lager breath, “Those guys are you. If you didn’t have Karina, you’d be screwed.”

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