Don't even mention John Howard
Tenth anniversary of a fascist regime. Tenth anniversary of a nincompoop in charge. Tenth anniversary of Johnnie Howard and the media is licking his boots, grovelling in front of him, as if he were our Messiah.
He is credited with revamping the Australian economy. Reality check: he implemented the reforms Paul Keating had passed in Parliament before he was voted out of power.
He has just stated on national television that he didn’t think One Nation voters were racist. If they weren’t racist, they must just be plain fools, voting for someone who promised to print more money in order to kick start the economy.
Don’t even get me started on little Johnnie Howard.
How it is possible for anyone to continue to be voted in after the huge deception of the electorate regarding the war in Afghanistan and Iraq, is beyond me.
How so many people, particularly geriatrics, continue to vote for a man who is making education a fantasy for low income earners, is also beyond me.
How anyone believes a word that comes out of his mouth, is also beyond me.
I’ll stop now before the bile rises to my throat and chokes me.
Don't talk to me about life
Life, as Marvin the paranoid android puts in, usually gives you a pain in all the sides of your left diodes. Sometimes, though, it puts you through a cyclone of emotions right when you don’t need it. It lets you know you’re still alive. It wears you out. It punches your lights out. You’re left for dead, gone, dodo. Then you realise the blood is pumping through your veins, you’re bruised and battered, bleeding internally from a million places, but the adrenalin is flowing through your veins.
It’s kinda like the first time you go snowboarding without lessons, wearing waterproof cycling trousers and a light shell instead of the usual Gore-Tex gear. You’re soaked, you’re half-frozen, your hands are turning blue, your fingertips are about to go black and frostbite is about to set in. Yet you’re still picking yourself off the floor, righting yourself back up on that beautiful piece of wood and fibreglass and trying it once more. Down the slope you go, hoping you’ll get there in one piece, before they shut the slopes for the night.
You throw yourself on the bed and wish for an ice bath, but it’s too cold for that and a hot bath will only increase the swelling. You think back on the last time you were this knackered and you realise it was that time she stayed the night one week before leaving for Nepal.
This new set of feelings for a totally new person, whom you hardly know is a bit of a shock. The absolute physical need to taste their skin, smell their aroma, drink their whole self in, comes as an absolute surprise. The liquid warmth between your legs, the shortness of breath are indices of how much you want to see them again. And again.
You’re even contemplating skipping class, physio, setting up the parent’s pc, everything. You know it’s madness, though, because if it was him, he wouldn’t be setting aside those things he had to do. He’d be seeing you when it was convenient for him. So the pit of fire in your belly is going to have to wait. The swooning sensation in your arms screaming for his arms is going to have to be put to the side.
The storm has not abated, though. It rages in your veins, in your thoughts and in your heart. You don’t want anything, but you want more. This is when you know, life has just thrown a wobbly in your direction. Spanner in the works, hiccup, whatever you want to call it. It’s a wake up call, letting you know there’s still hope for you. So you’d better enjoy it while it lasts.
