It’s really weird to be travelling and not be counting down the days until I have to go home with dread. I can be away as long as I want to. I don’t have to go back.
I always said that when I started to worry about going back to the real world, it was time to change what I was going back to. The big kick up the arse in regards to that was when I woke up in tears in a shack off the coast of Fiji two years ago, having dreamt that it was time to go home. Maybe it was the kava, I dunno. From that morning, I set about changing what I had to go back home to.
But it’s not easy when you write for a porn mag. I started at The Picture as the top ranking student in the best journalism course in the country (hey, what’s the point of doing it if you can’t brag about it?). Fairfax wanted me. News wanted me. I stuck with The Picture out of some retarded sense of loyalty. I started there poor, and took a job that involved four hours travel a day because I was trying to start a family. Working there was a major reason my marriage didn’t eventuate. It was probably a stumbling block in half a dozen other fledgling relationships (my ’30 seconds of wonder probably didn’t help, either). It sure as hell was a reason I spent about two years wanting to fucking kill myself. Sitting in an office while people around you discuss whether one of the models had wiped her blurter properly before her photo shoot ain’t exactly life-affirming.
If I had any forsight I would’ve seen that writing about hookers five days a week wasn’t great for the ol’ career, but I’m blind most of the time, so fuck it.
And when I wanted to get out, I couldn’t. I tried, and nobody would take me, even with two degrees and eight years in the business. I got down to the last two with some nerd computer game company, but didn’t make it because I’m not enough of a nerd. Where do I go from here, career-wise? I dunno, the ladyboys around here seem to be doing alright, maybe I’ll give that a crack.
But now I am free. I don’t have to go back to that shit, I don’t have a dark shadow over everything I do, or have to treat it as some playground amusement to take my attention away from the real world. This is the real world, motherfucker.
I guess, in regards to the blog as a whole, this is character development. To be more accurate, I’m pissedand wet from some sort of monsoon (not Gorilla Monsoon, though, because he’s dead) and getting changed before seeing what’s going on around here. Along with two grannies and a single mother, I’m pretty sure I’m the only person staying at my hotel. At least I know the single mother likes to fuck.