Saturday Night

Saturday night. The party night. The pinnacle of the weekend. The time when everything feels great. That moment in which work can be completely forgotten about – far enough removed from Friday afternoon and yet not close enough to Monday to warrant worrying about work. Saturday night is that wonderful time when a few casual drinks with friends turns into a crazy party that somehow results in long and outrageous sex with a beautiful woman you only just met at the bar.

Fuck. I look down at my cup of chamomile tea with disappointment. After waiting ten minutes for it to reach an adequately drinkable temperature I discover that I made it too weak and now all I have is slightly-yellowed hot water.

I take another sip to see if I could persevere as I cannot be bothered going back to the kitchen to make another one. I decide it’s not too bad. I’ll make do.

The laziness of that thought is not lost on me but the kitchen is on the other side of the house, at least eight metres away.

It’s not the actual walking the kitchen, or the act of making another tea, that deters me. It’s the fact that my house is constantly arctic-level cold throughout winter and I’m currently tightly wrapped in a doona-cocoon in such way as to only expose my hands (to hold the mug) and my face (to drink from the mug).

Wrapping oneself up in a doona-cocoon is a skill. Doing so while holding a mug of potentially scalding yellow liquid is an art form. Just call me the Mona Lisa. No wait, in that metaphor I’m the artist not the painting. Call me…call me…who painted the Mona Lisa?

Da Vinci! Phew. I thought my brain had finally given up on me, leaving me trapped on the couch in my doona-cocoon clutching my piss-weak tea, on the way to an amnesia-induced death that starts with forgetting basic general knowledge like who painted the Mona Lisa.

If I died early it would definitely be something very lame like that. Nothing cool like having my naked body found in a satin-covered heart shaped bed at my million dollar apartment where the coroner would declare that I did not die from excessive partying or gratuitous sex as first thought but rather from a simple suffocation after being trapped on the bottom of a one-man-twenty-women orgy.

No. For me the only glory in death I could hope for is that my death is worthy enough to even warrant calling the coroner. Even just a pop-in. He could drop in on his way to work to confirm that nothing sinister happened and maybe even casually remark that I look content. If he wanted to be really nice he could even lower his voice with regret when he says it’s sad to see young people go early…

I’m actually not as depressed as I sound by the way. I find self-deprecating spirals are a great way to feel sorry for oneself without all the unnecessary overhead of real depression. I get to mope and carry on and whine and when I’m ready I can just flick the switch and come back to reality.

– Jack Brumby (2014)


 

I wrote the above piece over four years ago now as a writing exercise where I sat down at a laptop with a blank page and just let the random words flow. It’s not bad. It’s a little raw and unpolished but I wanted to post it here anyway. It will serve as a reminder that whenever I am bored, unmotivated, or searching for something to do I always end up writing. Writing truly is what makes me happy.

It will also serve to document my past and my growth in life in general, but also specifically writing. As a burgeoning writer I find mixed results when I review past work. Sometimes I am proud, even a little impressed by what I managed to write. Other times I am horrified by the sheer shittiness of the words I compiled. Or, like in this case, I feel both sides of this emotional spectrum.

I have learned that it does not really matter what I think now. It only matters what I thought then, when I actually wrote it. I’m a different Jack now to the Jack that wrote this and I will change again in the future. When it comes to writing it is only the present moment that matters – the person happily bashing away at the keyboard, pouring their heart and mind out on to the page for fun, is where the gold is.

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