The Rage in Gerald PG.

When I awoke yesterday morning, I felt an alien sensation passing through my bones. Deep, unmolested rage. For no apparent reason, other than maybe this Junkie I live with called Willem stole my stockpile of scotch fingers the other night. The only food left in the house.

Through the day, as I went about my tasks, this rage built and built. I ran errands frantically, with a sinister passion unmatched by any other patron at the local Wandering Bob's.

It was a quiet rage, building up behind my eyes. Throbbing and pulsating like the beat of a timpani. This was followed by the explosion of a cluster headache, erupting through my skull, confining me to bed for the remainder of the day. One of the kinder Junkies brought me a strange beverage. The strange concoction seemed to be cheery in appearance, however viscus in consistency and slightly acidic in odour, I remained tantalised by its unusual sunset-like complexion.

As I drank it down, i felt a soothing calm and a surge of pure joy. It felt as though I was being dipped slowly, head-first in a bucket filled with concentrated euphoria. I had a sensation of absolute peace, as though everything was right with the world. As though I had found love, fulfillment, and satisfaction in one mouthful of absolute wonder. Whilst I savored the biblical flavour, I came to a simple yet life-changing realisation. Via route of a modest glass of 2 dollar orange juice, I had reached Nirvana.

This Week's Episode: 'Gerald and the Junkies'

The time between this post and my last is near inexcusable. It has been rather difficult as I have been engaged in changing my lodgings. I now am livin' in a rather small, run down, ramshackle of a miner's cottage in east brunswick. I live with six or seven (the number fluctuates) meth-headz. 'lemmie just tell you right now that I am rather frightened by their skin.
The general hygiene of the place is quite below sub-standard. For one thing, weekly cockroach races are held in the bathtub. The junkie who loses has to score the smack for the week, and the winner is exempt from rent for the following fortnight. I too have become engaged in this despicable betting circuit. My money for tomorrow is on Jose Frerenandez The Destroyer of Gingerbread (the smallest cockroach - I always love an underdog. I do end up supplying a lot of smack. Which I don't even partake in. Quite a dollar-suck).
We have no television, so evening entertainment consists of observing these degenerates shoot up. Their semi-concious songs and rambling fill the cold night air, wafting through the breeze like the rustling of 1000 trees that have been cut down and replaced by upright fans that have a bit of toast stuck in the blades. Crunchy and repetitive is the best way to describe this.
So as you can see, I've become accustom to this daily malaise. Im used to the smell now...well, most of the time. Except Tuesdays. Curry night. I'll leave the rest to your wonderfully sharp imaginations.

Anyway I must be off now. It's my turn to prepare the bathtub/racecourse for the big night.

Centrelink Caperz

I'm sorry for the short gap between this post and my last, I had promised at least one update a week, however this has been unable to eventuate as I've been waiting in the same damn centerlink queue since then.

I built myself a small fashionable 3-piece suit out of unemployment forms and now I have nothing to do, so I downloaded an 8 dollar internet pack for my little cellular telephone so that I may update this log whenever I please.

It's a hard life.

I've begun drinking again, there's more alcohol available in a centerlink queue than you would imagine. Despite the fact that I swore I'd never drink again after the little submarine incident, it's hard to stay sober when everything is illuminated by 15 year old fluorescent lightbulbs. So if I don't update this blog for the next 8 weeks, blame it on the Smirnoff Ice.

So, it's around 9 am centerlink time, and it's time for breakfast on this 11.6 degree morning. There's not much to eat around here, I had a few Minties in my pocket (as this certainly appears to be an adequate Minties Moment), however I devoured them within the first few days. So, I mainly eat dust mites that have the lack of good-thought to poke their heads up from the coat belonging to the man standing in front of me. I fashioned a small spear-like object out of more forms (I've become a master at the refined art of origami). This spear glints as I aim it at my tasty opponents, as it's made entirely of golden-rod sheets designed for unemployed rappers, pimps, whores and douchebags.

I will skip the unecessaries as they're rather distasteful, and simply say that breakfast was a wondrously delicious buffet of dustmitey goodness.

Anyway I've gotten tired of predictive text as it's most counter-intuitive, so hopefully this post will be enough to satisfy the rampaging, drunken readers of this blog. If it's not, please send your letters to Bexhill on sea, care of Thomas Grunge. If you're poor with your hands, as I suspect many of you are, too bad. Be satisfied with this post.

My place of employment

With my life finally back on track I ventured out into the world of employment. The first job opportunity that arose, was that of the world's oldest profession. All I can say is, I turned it down. Wandering the streets I happened across a small, family owned supermarket, called Wandering Bob's Emporium. They offered me the title of "Checkout Gentleman" in which I would have a fetching hat, of brilliant hues of purple and green. In total I worked about three hours at Wandering Bob's, the purchases made there were... Disturbing, to say the least. Orange juice was a popular choice among the young working families that frequented the establishment and I can safely say that I will never understand Orange Juice, it is a foreign concept to me. Eventually I snapped, when young boy, of about six, attempted to buy a large box of sponges. The sponge, that dastardly contraption, used in all sorts of nefarious capacities. Like, absorbing... liquids... like... orange juice and the blood of innocents. I ran around the store, throwing my enigmatic arms into the air, screaming: "You whores! YOU WHORES! You need not these things of which you buy! I can't take any more of this shit! I'm 'onna go get some coffee and a doughnut. Then I'm gonna skip town for a couple weeks. Maybe smoke strange substances." Then I ran out of the store, into the wild sunset.

Party Barnacles.

Sorry, bout this guys, but I've been partying rather hard since late September up till new years, this is the first time I've been able to crawl out of my bed, breaking my way through half rotten T-shirts and empty vodka bottles. On my way out I was accosted by some spiders who wanted some money to get out of Nigeria and across the border into Japan. I am now broke, the only things I have to cling to are my fuchsia sunglasses and my bright orange fedora.
Updating the blog occurred to me the moment I arose from my alcohol fueled stupor. So there's not much to say really, I went to the beach in late September and, to my amazement, out of the water emerged a HUGE yellow submarine. The top opened, revealing several disheveled looking party barnacles. They offered me a place in their party submarine and I had to accept, after all, they had crisps. How could I refuse?
Thus began my stay in the "PARTY SUB" as I began to call it, on the third or fourth day. I was welcomed by the party barnacles, and eventually I a permanent feature at the constant party. Others came and went, yet I remained, sampling the delicious crisps on offer and drinking all of their booze.
Enclosed is a picture of some of my hosts, who I wish to thank for my time with them. However, their hangover remedy (sucking on a boot made of penicillin, which I happen to be allergic to) proved to to be entirely ineffective, and made the matter worse for a good three months.