I have a brother. That guy jumped from an airplane, falling something like 220 kilometres per hour before landing in Australia, just the other day. He claims to have enjoyed it.
Guys, I am getting better at keeping secrets.
There is a war going on. An epic battle waged within my very apartment. I fear I am losing.
Their strategy ingenious: outnumber the enemy billions to one. I wish I had thought of it.
I have but one ally, and he sleeps in my shower.
A flood of Schoolies fills Surfers and its surrounding towns. Shops convert, selling clothing and sporting posters celebrating them. Nights are subject to their screams. Balconies are packed with their creepy, little bodies.
The hostel we were in soaked up so many as to have no room for us. Ryan and Paul moved to Southport, and then back and into their apartment, just as English as when they left.
I migrated north to Surf’n Sun Something Backpackers Something Beachside. This blog being public, I’ve decided that it would be ill-advised to post my opinions and thoughts regarding those that I meet. Hmmm. That makes it less interesting. Some filtered observations might be acceptable.
I met Kay. He liked to talk [to people]. Still Japanese, he left a few days later. Three others took that opportunity to fill the room. Two were sisters, and the other was someone’s sister, I’m sure.
Theresa killed a cockroach and hates bats. She didn’t like me at all.
Anna thought bats were cute and liked horror movies. She did not appreciate the gifts left by her bed bugs.
Natalie gave her two weeks notice to the strip club for which she waited.
Having never purchased beers in Australia, I enlisted the advice of an employee at the liquor store. I was led to a room that was eerily cold. My first thought that I’d followed him to my doom.
He proceeded to point out varieties of beer, and list their attributes. I selected a brand based solely on a commercial I’d seen some days before.
I bought six. I drank two. Four sit in my fridge, alone but for some moldy cheese.
I went to the beach a few times. Looking upward, I was mesmerized. I watched the clouds as they intermingled. They were not dense and opaque and boring. They were layered and veined and they moved not as a single mass.
I learned that I have a derisive smile. It has been claimed that judgment is marked by my smile. I would have described it as mischievous.
I have an apartment (payed for for three months). I moved in, leaving the three as Swedish as I found them. It is not a nice place, but if it were mine I believe that I could make it decent. It is decorated with a billion different styles. They work together to form whatever is the visual equivalent of cacophony. Thankfully, the great number of bugs serve to distract my eyes. There are two varieties that I’ve yet to note, but there are many of each.
Having an apartment means that I finally get to cook. Can I finally escape the strangely bland food that Australia thus far has provided?
In my search for a pasta sauce that isn’t gross I consulted the internet for sauce ratings. I bought two different types.
I’ve tried one, so far. I give it a four point five out of nine (4.5/9).
I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of money this week. Hopefully I can find a way to replenish my diminishing funds without resorting to renting my body to the elderly. Their wrinkled flesh leathery from years of sun. Their teeth yellowed from the accumulated smoke of a thousand cigarettes. Those hacking-laughs haunt my dreams.
Of course, that might be easier if I could get internet access. Apparently, they are very busy. Their only service to me thus far has been the endless and looping serenade of music while on hold.
Over the last few days, my meals have been dominated (or entirely consisting of) josh-sandwiches.
They’re not as good as the name might lead you to believe. The mustard tastes strange.
Out of a hotel and into a hostel, again, today. Into an apartment-style unit with four Canadian fellows in the kitchen area (they claim they’re from Canada, but I find it difficult to believe that Nelson is actually a place) and two girls from England in a side-room. This place is kind of gross. Well, kind of is probably too delicate a term. But here I’m stuck for the next three days.
For a week or more, I’ve had a song stuck in my head. I had never heard it in full, so I couldn’t be sure that I liked it. Today in Southport (~45 minute walk from Surfers Paradise), I purchased it. How much do I heart The Veronicas? Turns out a lot.
I encountered some trolls tonight, fishing beneath a bridge. It reminded me of home.
I am leaving Sydney in favour of the Gold Coast. I am sorry, but the time has come to make a mad max style pilgrimage to Surfers Paradise. I’m sure you understand.