F(uck) It Fourth Phlog

Life is unpredictable. Probably the purest sentiment I’ve ever committed to digital ink, on account of the fact that naught but the most spoiled, closeted, insulated or arrogant could sincerely disagree. Of course, you want to know where I’m going with such a thought process. The first and most pressing need is to address that in my most previous post I asserted I would probably not be posting another phone blog anytime soon.

I didn’t lie. I just changed my mind. You see, since I was interstate (in Melbourne, Victoria) engaging in worldly enjoyment I may soon blog about separately, certain facts have come to light. More on that in a following paragraph. But let us linger further on my obstinate phlogging. I can do it anywhere and at any time I wish, depending on phone battery life. And where am I now? Jupiter’s Hotel and Casino. Why? I’ll come to that. More specific to the location is the casino smoking area overlooking the putrid waterway between me and the new and not quite yet operational Gold Coast light rail system. It’s a Sunday night, about 11.30pm. So there’s some “when” for you detail hungry readers. It’s a quiet night. Cold. And if you read my most previous post and are privy to or at least well prejudiced (not that I’d normally encourage prejudice under any circumstances) about my quite unlucky and extremely occasional relationship with gambling, you’ll understand why I’m out here, nursing a Scotch and Coke; instead of inside slumped in front of a roulette table, nursing a Scotch and Coke. I may be an unemployed occasional drunk, but I’m no fool. For reasons I will get to, I decided not to go straight home after drinking with my brother at a sports club close to my home that I’ve previously mentioned. Which presently brings me to the second reason for rightly claiming the unpredictability of life.

My brother had sex with a girl he knew I had feelings for. Ergh: “had feelings for”. It sounds so juvenile, doesn’t it. But you know what I mean. It would be premature for me to say I love this girl – and given the recently come to light events, such depth of feeling could be an eventuality less likely to occur than I might have hoped. But, I had grown to care for her, regardless of the fact that there was little discernable reciprocation of my disposition. The biggest two problems with the situation are a: that I haven’t come to care for a woman as much as I have her for quite a while, and; b: that I have never been in competition with my brother for women, as I’ve previously espoused in relation to the fact that we have always had different tastes in women, and we’ve always attracted women with different tastes. But then again, without going into too much detail about an act indulged in by one man I’m fond of by blood and one woman I’m also fond of by biology and romanticism, I do believe both were not fueled by any real depth of emotional attachment. Rather, as far as I can tell, convenience was their main driver. Which I can easier forgive the latter than the former.  One was more conscious than the other, and any alcohol involved cannot be factored into forgiveness. There is always another dude or group of dudes sniffing around any woman anyone is interested in. When the other is a member of your family, it fucking hurts.

My brother only weeks ago mentioned how he’d years ago conquered one of his many short-term romantic objects. Simply, he set a friend the goal of giving a girl he was at least physically fond of his phone number. Said friend achieved the goal, and said brother subsequently achieved his. This relates to, and hurts me, because I’d set my brother the same goal. But of course instead of giving her my phone number he, well, fucked her. And he was quite more ready to tell me about it, this time, than he was about the time a few weeks ago in which he’d kissed her – which he until his conscience got the better of him had professed to have not laid so much of a hand on her. The worst thing is I knew it would happen. This weekend I’d been in Melbourne, having a great time celebrating the 30th birthday of a man I could love second only to those, said brother included, within my family – all the while convinced my oft mentioned brother was engaged in sexual activity the knowledge of would only bring me pain. To be honest, though, in light of the revelation and my continuing and reasonably deepening conviction of the woman in question’s emotional disregard for me, I’ve never felt more simultaneously unhappy and ALIVE. In the past I’ve often been too briefly indulged, rejected and outright disregarded by women with whom I’ve become enamoured. But now, considering the circumstances, I’m just about done.

By “done”, I’m not talking about suicide. Neither do I mean a boycott of the fairer sex. (I’ve routinely been suspected or accused of being a homosexual by, well, fucking morons.) I mean done with the Gold Coast. My current geographical reality. My brother, God love ‘im, suits this superficial paradise like a hand in a tailored glove. I’ve never suited it, but have always held out in hope that I might find a woman who differs from the predominant culture of hypocritical conservatism, boob-jobs and money hungry bullshit, and could love me for who I choose not to be based not solely but largely on observing muscle-headed morons around me. It seems, perhaps finally, I should shed what has clearly been a delusion. I mean, there are only two geographically local precursors for my continued pursuit of women: 1) that I might still capture the heart of the girl with whom my brother has slept (which I’m not sure I could still bring myself to attempt to do, under the circumstances, no matter how much otherwise it might come to seem right), and; 2) that another girl might come along with whom I’m likely to become thrice emotionally, intellectually and physically connected with. The latter seems even more unlikely than the former.

I think I need to publish this because I’m not sure how to save it. But will be back shortly upon coming across some time in which to finish it.

Ok I’m back. One option is to move to Melbourne, to be near and quite (perhaps reciprocally) comforted by the greatest non-blood related and platonic male love, in good times and bad, of my life. Most realistic/reasonable option. The other option is to gather what essential possessions I’ll need, drive to either Townsville or Cairns, sell my car for two or three thousand dollars and spend the ensuing months or perhaps more than a year hitchhiking/bussing my way to Darwin-Broome-Perth-Adelaide-etc. then finally home to the Gold Coast. Most romantic/desirable/dangerous/anticlimactic option. I dunno. I’ll probably end up choosing the third, at least in the short-term, option: staying on the Coast and eking out a banal existence working an all but minimum wage job while continuing to expect my lack of female company in large quantities to almost dictate my future gain of female company quality. It has been that way. The women I’ve blessedly if briefly come across have been almost totally of high quality. But I’ve gotta have, or at least would really like, such quality to last for a generous period of time, sometime soon. It is, as according to how I started this post, unpredictable. But if unpredictable isn’t at least met by if not mixed with comfortable anytime soon, I will need to make such dramatic changes to my life that it has not yet quite had a taste of. Dual tertiary education and multi-country travel aside. Journeys of the mind and feet can bear no comparison against those, ill-fated or not, of the heart.


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