Ahh, the old Sunday evening 11.30pm rush-job when you’re more than a little half-cut from drinking Sapporo stubbies to reward yourself for doing an hour of manual labour in your courtyard earlier in the evening… glorious. (As an aside, I’ve re-read a number of my posts from the last couple of weeks and am starting to believe that I may have a drinking problem.) The ‘commish coffers have now been bolstered to $1300 thanks to my insightful commentary about tweed jackets. This makes me happier than Michael Jackson perusing the autumn/winter Osh Kosh B’Gosh catalogue, his pallid, erect penis in hand as he relaxes in his gigantic spa bath at Neverland (that image is even funnier now that he’s dead).

We have a courtyard area at my place in Carlton that’s been neglected over the winter months (because I see no point in maintaining an area that we will not use for this period purely for the sake of it). It’s a huge space that’s going to get a significant amount of use during the summer months and therefore is worth attending to now that it’s starting to warm up again (slightly). I made the ridiculous comment on Friday afternoon that it’d be a great idea to have a working bee on Sunday (today) to clean up this area to get it ready for a (hopefully) nice and warm Melburnian summer. I’ve got two new housemates moving in around a week from now and I thought it’d be great to have the outdoor area ready to go for their arrival so that we can sink copious amounts of corner-ship piss out there in relative comfort. This involved a significant amount of weeding, some weed-spraying, some heavy lifting and some sweeping, but nothing that I deemed too difficult for a nice lazy Sunday.

Then I went out and got absolutely shit-faced on Saturday night at a pub in Brunswick…

I woke up this at one o’clock this afternoon with the feeling that I may have died and been reanimated in the early hours of the morning by a voodoo priest. I had a thumping headache that felt like a thousand pickaxes wielded by unholy sprites were chipping away at the base of my cerebral cortex and my voice had taken on a deep, almost-sexual baritone from all of the cigarettes that I’d gratuitously inhaled. I felt that if I coughed, ancient dust from a crypt may come out of my mouth.

Anyway, I’d made a pledge to myself on Friday and self-inflicted temporary AIDS or not, I intended on sticking to it. I rolled out of bed and into the shower (after hovering over the toilet bowl dry reaching for a time) and then dressed myself in my Sunday best (worst) and drove out to the Highpoint Shopping Centre (which is somewhere in the Western Suburbs), new housemates in tow to get some gardening supplies. It’s a huge shopping complex, catering for any/every consumer whim/need/desire a Western Suburbs/Westerner could dare ever have.

The fiasco started when I tried to find a park. They have this fucking ridiculous system whereby each car parking spot has a sensor on it and overhead boards advise potential car parkers of the amount of available car parks in any given section. Sounds like a great idea, doesn’t it? Well, it does, except it doesn’t fucking work. Some small cars appear to not set off the sensors, meaning that the overhead boards tell you that a free car park is in an area when, in fact, it isn’t.

I spent fifteen fucking minutes trying to find a fucking park in this hellhole, becoming increasingly more infuriated with every slow-moving vehicle and gleefully ambling pedestrian that I had to wait for along the way. I left after this time without even successfully finding one. It’s safe to say that I was in a murderous mood at this point, and we hadn’t even entered the shopping complex.

Then I got in there…

The never-ending sea of humanity loping through that place is utterly incredible. All those people with absolutely nothing better to do on a Sunday that clog up perfectly good walking space as they excruciatingly slowly wander through the very wide common-areas of the centre, their kids and their entire fucking extended family in tow, browsing. When I go shopping, I have a defined idea of what I want to buy. I go in, I buy it, and then I fucking leave. I don’t ‘make a day of it’ like these cunts, some of whom spend the entire day ‘window shopping’.

The only type of window shopping I deem acceptable is when you’re out shopping FOR FUCKING WINDOWS. What is the fucking point of looking at things that you like but won’t or can’t ever buy? That’s just plain old fucking depressing.

I’d rather chop each of my toes off one by one with a pair of secateurs than spend any more time than necessary in a monument to excess such as Highpoint. Fuck me, what a horror-show.

The stale, re-processed air, the sounds of the top forty sinisterly reverberating through the centre loudspeakers, the vacant, thousand-yard stares of men and women who’ve lost all hope for themselves and decided instead to live their lives through their children…

Get me the fuck out of here.

/end communication

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