I woke up yesterday to excrutiating back pain that shot from my coccyx to my neck that woke me up with a start, but rendered me immobile for several minutes. I managed to stir my body from semi-conscious purgatory to writhe and moan, finding no comfort in the foetal or stretching out. Dragging myself into the loungeroom, I bent myself backwards over the arm-rest of my bright purple sofa – CRACKCRACKCRACK! - the pain in my back immediately made its way into my stomach, and I called Jerkface – he needed to take The Kid to school and me to the hospital.
What is it about going to a medical centre or hospital that makes whatever agonising pain you were feeling go away that teeny-tiny bit so you feel like a guilty hypochondriac with neon arrow-lights shining down on you, screaming “IDIOT” in bright orange like an unholy, shameful aura? Whatever it is, I felt it. My heart felt heavier as I scanned Accident and Emergency; there were mangled men, wounded women, delirious delinquents, and most of them were alone. It was then that the doctor was called over, who decided to cut the shit and ask me relevant questions about my admission, rather than where I was born (I was asked twice) and if I was a citizen (twice). Yes Doctor, I’m in pain. Yes Doctor, I’ve pooped in the last 48 hours. Yes Doctor, I’ve eaten in the last 23 years. I think it was that last one that had me shown to a bed. With great urgency, at that.
I felt I had no business being there, wasting valuable resources in the way of staff and supply – my demand felt ridiculous. I felt someone else could’ve used my bed, my urine jar, my gown with one arse-tie that was missing a corresponding one so my back-end was feeling a draught from every which-way. I felt stupid and weak, until I doubled over in what felt like my stomach twisting.
Despite the tattoos and piercings I’ve had over the years, I have never had a good working relationship with needles for blood collection. While I have the utmost faith in both public and private healthcare systems and even more for those qualified to collect blood, it’s become apparent over the years that my veins have fear of their own – every time I’ve ever had to have a cannula inserted into my veins, they’ve hidden like cockroaches when the light goes on. This time, I was jabbed seven (7) times over two arms and the back of my right hand in an attempt to find a vein. All seven (7) times, their attempts were unsuccessful. The nurses and doctors did, however, manage to burst four (4) of my veins, leaving me to look like a jonesing smack addict writhing in agony and covered in bruises. Fantastic. Despite the glorified bliss of a horse-drawn (non)existence so loosely documented by William S. Burroughs, I knew there was another reason I didn’t pursue a junky life.
Later, I was wheeled into X-Ray, where I was left to wait alongside an elderly gentleman who occasionally forgot who he was, where he was, and who everyone was. Including his faithful and terrified wife, who never left his side. Before we found ourselves next to each other awaiting our turn with the x-rays, he drifted in and out of sleep, snoring like a tranquilised boar. Funnily enough, whenever he woke up and his wife had nodded off, he’d grab her head and shake it around a bit, just to ask who she/everyone was.
X-Ray in every hospital is a funny place to be. They ask you to remove all jewellery, as they say it could interfere with your health and/or scan. You say you have non-negotiable jewellery like piercings, they shrug. They say it’s a harmless procedure, but they run like the wind behind what looks like bulletproof glass windows to peek in at you laying there, pathetic, so they don’t get exposed to radiation. Important to note also – they’re always run by one x-ray “specialist” who’s got an over-inflated ego because he/she is surrounded by medical students who are nervous, clumsy, and so goddamned cute like an abandoned puppy in a skip bin that you can’t help but be sympathetic and help them out when they can’t figure out left from right.
Six hours later, I was well over it. As surprisingly efficient as this particular hospital was, I wasn’t prepared to lose any more time for inconclusive tests. I called for the doctor, who was tending to an emo kid who got some waterproof mascara in his eye. She said that was fine, my blood tests were all within normal limits, my x-rays were showing up fine, and all she had to do was draw up my discharge letter. She asked that I keep my robe on, as she had one more test her boss wanted her to perform – something about fingers and KY Jelly and making sure that nothing was blocking my innards…
Ultrasound? Yeah, she did mention that before. Sure, why not? I’d wait around for that.
She came in with a box of tissues, industrial-sized KY Jelly, and gloves on. I was to lay on the tissue she laid down at the edge of my bed with my knickers down and facing away from her. The rest was a bit of a blur, but it sounded eerily similar to a veteran cop reading Miranda Rights to a career criminal he’d arrested one too many times on Law & Order, whilst thinking about what to order for lunch. The words “non-invasive compared to” and “not as bad as you think” came up, but I was busy trying to channel ALF’s “No Problem!” attitude despite my bed’s obvious butt-overhang.
It wasn’t exactly an in-and-out procedure… more like an in-out-a-bit-pad-around-in-a-bit-more-out-a-bit-more-turn-in-as-far-as-I-can-without-looking-like-I-enjoy-it-then-all-the-way-out procedure. I’m not going to argue with a doctor when she’s closer to accessing my giblets than anybody has ever been, ever. It only took about a minute, and I was left with the box of tissues to wipe myself down like the scum I am.
Good news: I don’t have prostate cancer.
Bad news: I didn’t get so much as a kiss on the back of the neck, or an encouraging tap on the fanny for a colonic job well done. Team work makes the dream work, you know.
Good news: I think Doctor still respects me.
Bad news: I may have first-stage Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I’ve been ordered to do a C14 Urea Breath Test for Helicobacter Pylori, and get a referral to see a Gastroenterologist. Best case scenario is Coeliac Disease (gluten-free, aka DELICIOUS-FREE), worse case is IBS.
Despite the buzzwords, both are quite manageable and nowhere near as bad as they sound. It’s almost as if you have to become ill as a rite of passage to get well. My diet got its overhaul from crap to quite healthy when I started this job in November last year, preventative and conscious-driven (avoid She-Wang!), but it’s been headache after headache since I found out I was lactose intolerant and cut the dairy completely out of my diet (yay, Soy.) in April. Sorry, I digress.
I was ordered to have an ECG to double-check my heartstrings:
“Your heart rate’s a bit on the upper range, but your blood pressure’s fine. Maybe today was a bit of a scare. Hahaha!”
Well, Nurse. Not five minutes ago, I was made to wipe myself down after having your good doctor fist me when I thought I was going to have an ultrasound. I’d say that qualifies as a bit of a scare, ya.
Finally, Doctor came back with my discharge letter and four sachets of Movicol. Movicol is a hard-core diuretic to flush out my system. Yayyyy. I am to go on four days of this (anti)shit. She did the Miranda Rights-esque talk again, and said the Ultrasound will wait until I return if I should need to because that would have been too invasive, and I've been through enough.
... riiiight.
With that, I said my thanks and left.
I returned to work the next day where our kind Naturopaths decided to lovingly call me Lil’ Smacky for the bruises. I floated in and out of awareness (thanks, Endone), working toward the end of the day where I had the second round of Prolotherapy on my foot to go... surprise, I wasn’t really feeling fearful of needles this time around.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Friday, October 12, 2007
Sosued
I can remember the days when I called a jihad on nightclubs – the music was far too loud to engage in decent conversation, it’s far too dark to figure out where walls end and hidden stairwells begin, and it’s far too crowded and sweaty to figure out if you’re standing in spilt beer or piss. As far as I was concerned back then, there was no reason for me to ever find myself in a club – if you wanted to find me, you looked in bars and pubs close to public transport, and if I wasn’t with Misha or Nailpolishneurosis, I was alone.
Some things never change. Some are slightly altered.
I really do owe my ex-boyfriend (the “thespian” who can’t let Ice and one mildly successful acting stint 15+ years ago go) a thankyou, as the gentlemen who run Sosueme have become some of my dearest friends in Sydney. With several successful nights under their belt, I have seen their joy as well as their stress. I remember arriving in town at 3pm on the afternoon of the very first Sosueme – I rocked up to Clubhaus and was promptly left alone to wait for one of their girlfriends. Luckily, we were well-acquainted and she didn’t have that annoying inherent girlfriend trait of hating every woman who was close to their boyfriends. We ate cheesecake, talked about life, then headed to The Fringe around 6pm where I was faced with an unspoken and unexpected maternal obligation to almost force-feed Lady Sosueme, who had a not-so-secret eating disorder and addiction to binge drinking. Whew.
I’ve never been much of a social butterfly so found myself behind the scenes, helping out. Crashing at Clubhaus at about 5am, I woke up at 9am and had the other maternal non-surprise task of waking the dead so they could get all their staging gear returned by 11.30am. Aside from the foray into club management, the boys all have a hand in The Religion (one is the manager, two are musicians, and one is a long-time friend, collaborator, theatre actor) and are all individually intelligent, ambitious and oblivious of the hilarity that comes from moments of ego. It’s almost like watching Entourage, but the main character is rotated. They are friends, and my help was voluntary – a favour to friends who were very much aware that the bulk of the support shown had its limits. Nobody wants to deal with the bullshit you can’t see if there’s sex, drugs, and disco balls around. Admittedly, I wasn’t expecting anything from it aside from a thankyou in the way of free drinks and lunch.
Now I’m on Sosueme’s payroll as the VIP doorbitch. I think Blogger can only handle highlights, so.
As queried in previous comments, I (thankfully) have no say in who comes in or goes. If they’re on the list and are wearing their armbands, I let them in. When they start to get sloppy, that’s where I start up. The Sosueme before this, I had a radio direct to the front door and security. I didn’t get one this time because the last one was peaceful and well-organised. That, and those radios are useless.
The VIP room – even when empty - is cramped. I was prepared for a busy evening knowing that the room was accidentally double-booked with a goodbye party and a quarter-life bash. What I wasn’t expecting was a DJ double-booking AND another birthday party… the birthday party OF DOOM! This BPOD belonged to a poor(?) Birthday Girl who walked into a karmic blitzkrieg, the ghost of promiscuity past – in amongst the undulating flesh-wave of triple-booking, seven (7) previous lovers had attended, and all seven (7) had buddied up to exchange stories about Birthday Girl.
HA.
HA.
HA.
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHA.
Even without the ghosts and double-bookings, unless you’re there to pull strings or hold everything together, I think almost everyone starts to turn into a gremlin after midnight. There’s been time to have that five-too-many bevvies, chugged down with whatever little self-respect you had to begin with. Chivalry, etiquette, common decency, and basic vocabulary all give way to bullying, verbal abuse, physical abuse, leaning against walls, and lazy eyes. The beautiful get ugly and I swing between delight and depression.
People get fucking stupid when they hear “VIP”. They don’t care so much when it’s “Private Function.” I had several non-banded Actually, just writing about the evening is starting to piss me off again, so here are some lowlights.
“Armband or not, I don’t give a fuck. It’s over capacity, and once you walk out you cannot come back in. I’m now under Fringe orders, not Sosueme orders. Deal with it, or deal with security.”
That didn’t go down too well with the crowd. During the enforced exodus, I had a drink thrown at me and a woman call me a bitch when I tried to push her away from the wall candle she was nodding off dangerously close to. I had a “DONYOUKNUHOOAHHAMMMM” suit tell me that he owned the bar (lie), and that because I wasn’t listening to him (there wasn’t even a request or coherent dialogue, to my knowledge), he was going to piss on me. He got as far as leaning his forehead against the wall and half-undid his zipper before security booted him out.
Then there was Drunky. I saw Drunky several hours before, grinding against the smoke machine and making drunky-eyes in my general direction. Now here he was, in all his drunky glory. Sonofabitch. He stumbled down the stairs. He either grinned or vomitted a little into his mouth, then stood up straight and weaved his way towards me. Somewhere in the weaving, he seemed to realise that he was obviously stinking drunk and decided to change his tactic from trying to romance his way in to just shouldercharging his 6’ frame through me.
It’s amazing how my sober 4’10” can feel like a brick wall when his 6’ is quivering, drunken (but impressively pert!) mancan.
“Armband?”
“Ngughhhh.”
“Sorry mate, that’s a stamp. Armband’s an armband. Private function.”
“Nguggggggghhhhhh. Come on, Love.”
“Take it up with the guys at the front door or fuck off. You’re pissed as a fart and I’ve the right mind to call security.”
“Ngugh! Cunting cunt!”
“Fuck off.”
A mate of mine, Guy, tried to extract Drunky. Drunky reacted by punching him in the head and attempting to punch me. Security (bless, timing!) found him and threw him out. I later overheard Guy lean over to one of the Sosueme Gents and yell something about Drunky giving me a hard time.
“What, Miss Q? Fuck, she’ll chew him up and spit him out. She’s alright – she’s a fucking bulldog, man.”
Yeah!
VIP was eventually closed at 3am, so I had an hour to drink and socialise, which is what I did. I got to say goodbye to Kim, who was leaving to join the Circe de Soleil to be a carney, and extend my congrats and happy birthdays to Hutch and Birthday Girl. I danced for a bit (funny how these things find their way onto Facebook), and spent the rest of my hour sitting with a friend and laughing at the terrifyingly trashed dancers who had broken their “Off” switches, with big thanks to amphetamines. Apparently, if you haven’t shelved, you haven’t lived.
.
I stepped outside for a smoke, and found myself surrounded by couples alternating between making out and feeling each other’s faces. I assured the couple closest to me that there were no visible pustules on their faces, then decreed a jihad on public affection.
I was well over the evening. I helped a Sosueme Guy and Fringe staff clean up after closing time, then we went back to Clubhaus at 5am where I took position on my favourite blue sofa until 9am.
Lighting a fag in the Clubhaus courtyard after a much-needed shower, I rang my ex-husband to see how things were with The Kid. He handed the phone over to her, and my heart ached as she stuttered with excitement, telling me how she and Daddy met Grandma at the airport with a bunch of flowers (returning from a work stint in India, bless outsourcing), and that Daddy was going to take her to see “Surf’s Up” at the movies.
“I love you, Mummy.”
“I love you too, Monkey.”
“Kbye!”
I ended the call with my ex-husband, stepped out of the courtyard into the alley where none of the terraces had windows, and cried.
Sosueme’s once a month, and as much as I love seeing my friends and telling arseholes to piss off, motherhood is easily the best decision I’ve ever made. A few hours of idiots is fine for decent tax-free money in hand, but that’s it for me - I’m happy where I am.
In other news, I am in the process of organizing a photoshoot with a new photographer. His angle is capturing the personality and character of the model, and his current portfolio is wicked – there’s a lot of playfulness in the shoots. I guess women can be playful... I’m more socially inept than playful, and my goofiness or “playfulness” comes out of a neurotic desire to fill awkward silences, so I don’t know about that theme. Woooo, creative control.
Some things never change. Some are slightly altered.
I really do owe my ex-boyfriend (the “thespian” who can’t let Ice and one mildly successful acting stint 15+ years ago go) a thankyou, as the gentlemen who run Sosueme have become some of my dearest friends in Sydney. With several successful nights under their belt, I have seen their joy as well as their stress. I remember arriving in town at 3pm on the afternoon of the very first Sosueme – I rocked up to Clubhaus and was promptly left alone to wait for one of their girlfriends. Luckily, we were well-acquainted and she didn’t have that annoying inherent girlfriend trait of hating every woman who was close to their boyfriends. We ate cheesecake, talked about life, then headed to The Fringe around 6pm where I was faced with an unspoken and unexpected maternal obligation to almost force-feed Lady Sosueme, who had a not-so-secret eating disorder and addiction to binge drinking. Whew.
I’ve never been much of a social butterfly so found myself behind the scenes, helping out. Crashing at Clubhaus at about 5am, I woke up at 9am and had the other maternal non-surprise task of waking the dead so they could get all their staging gear returned by 11.30am. Aside from the foray into club management, the boys all have a hand in The Religion (one is the manager, two are musicians, and one is a long-time friend, collaborator, theatre actor) and are all individually intelligent, ambitious and oblivious of the hilarity that comes from moments of ego. It’s almost like watching Entourage, but the main character is rotated. They are friends, and my help was voluntary – a favour to friends who were very much aware that the bulk of the support shown had its limits. Nobody wants to deal with the bullshit you can’t see if there’s sex, drugs, and disco balls around. Admittedly, I wasn’t expecting anything from it aside from a thankyou in the way of free drinks and lunch.
Now I’m on Sosueme’s payroll as the VIP doorbitch. I think Blogger can only handle highlights, so.
As queried in previous comments, I (thankfully) have no say in who comes in or goes. If they’re on the list and are wearing their armbands, I let them in. When they start to get sloppy, that’s where I start up. The Sosueme before this, I had a radio direct to the front door and security. I didn’t get one this time because the last one was peaceful and well-organised. That, and those radios are useless.
The VIP room – even when empty - is cramped. I was prepared for a busy evening knowing that the room was accidentally double-booked with a goodbye party and a quarter-life bash. What I wasn’t expecting was a DJ double-booking AND another birthday party… the birthday party OF DOOM! This BPOD belonged to a poor(?) Birthday Girl who walked into a karmic blitzkrieg, the ghost of promiscuity past – in amongst the undulating flesh-wave of triple-booking, seven (7) previous lovers had attended, and all seven (7) had buddied up to exchange stories about Birthday Girl.
HA.
HA.
HA.
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHA.
Even without the ghosts and double-bookings, unless you’re there to pull strings or hold everything together, I think almost everyone starts to turn into a gremlin after midnight. There’s been time to have that five-too-many bevvies, chugged down with whatever little self-respect you had to begin with. Chivalry, etiquette, common decency, and basic vocabulary all give way to bullying, verbal abuse, physical abuse, leaning against walls, and lazy eyes. The beautiful get ugly and I swing between delight and depression.
People get fucking stupid when they hear “VIP”. They don’t care so much when it’s “Private Function.” I had several non-banded Actually, just writing about the evening is starting to piss me off again, so here are some lowlights.
“Armband or not, I don’t give a fuck. It’s over capacity, and once you walk out you cannot come back in. I’m now under Fringe orders, not Sosueme orders. Deal with it, or deal with security.”
That didn’t go down too well with the crowd. During the enforced exodus, I had a drink thrown at me and a woman call me a bitch when I tried to push her away from the wall candle she was nodding off dangerously close to. I had a “DONYOUKNUHOOAHHAMMMM” suit tell me that he owned the bar (lie), and that because I wasn’t listening to him (there wasn’t even a request or coherent dialogue, to my knowledge), he was going to piss on me. He got as far as leaning his forehead against the wall and half-undid his zipper before security booted him out.
Then there was Drunky. I saw Drunky several hours before, grinding against the smoke machine and making drunky-eyes in my general direction. Now here he was, in all his drunky glory. Sonofabitch. He stumbled down the stairs. He either grinned or vomitted a little into his mouth, then stood up straight and weaved his way towards me. Somewhere in the weaving, he seemed to realise that he was obviously stinking drunk and decided to change his tactic from trying to romance his way in to just shouldercharging his 6’ frame through me.
It’s amazing how my sober 4’10” can feel like a brick wall when his 6’ is quivering, drunken (but impressively pert!) mancan.
“Armband?”
“Ngughhhh.”
“Sorry mate, that’s a stamp. Armband’s an armband. Private function.”
“Nguggggggghhhhhh. Come on, Love.”
“Take it up with the guys at the front door or fuck off. You’re pissed as a fart and I’ve the right mind to call security.”
“Ngugh! Cunting cunt!”
“Fuck off.”
A mate of mine, Guy, tried to extract Drunky. Drunky reacted by punching him in the head and attempting to punch me. Security (bless, timing!) found him and threw him out. I later overheard Guy lean over to one of the Sosueme Gents and yell something about Drunky giving me a hard time.
“What, Miss Q? Fuck, she’ll chew him up and spit him out. She’s alright – she’s a fucking bulldog, man.”
Yeah!
VIP was eventually closed at 3am, so I had an hour to drink and socialise, which is what I did. I got to say goodbye to Kim, who was leaving to join the Circe de Soleil to be a carney, and extend my congrats and happy birthdays to Hutch and Birthday Girl. I danced for a bit (funny how these things find their way onto Facebook), and spent the rest of my hour sitting with a friend and laughing at the terrifyingly trashed dancers who had broken their “Off” switches, with big thanks to amphetamines. Apparently, if you haven’t shelved, you haven’t lived.
.
I stepped outside for a smoke, and found myself surrounded by couples alternating between making out and feeling each other’s faces. I assured the couple closest to me that there were no visible pustules on their faces, then decreed a jihad on public affection.
I was well over the evening. I helped a Sosueme Guy and Fringe staff clean up after closing time, then we went back to Clubhaus at 5am where I took position on my favourite blue sofa until 9am.
Lighting a fag in the Clubhaus courtyard after a much-needed shower, I rang my ex-husband to see how things were with The Kid. He handed the phone over to her, and my heart ached as she stuttered with excitement, telling me how she and Daddy met Grandma at the airport with a bunch of flowers (returning from a work stint in India, bless outsourcing), and that Daddy was going to take her to see “Surf’s Up” at the movies.
“I love you, Mummy.”
“I love you too, Monkey.”
“Kbye!”
I ended the call with my ex-husband, stepped out of the courtyard into the alley where none of the terraces had windows, and cried.
Sosueme’s once a month, and as much as I love seeing my friends and telling arseholes to piss off, motherhood is easily the best decision I’ve ever made. A few hours of idiots is fine for decent tax-free money in hand, but that’s it for me - I’m happy where I am.
In other news, I am in the process of organizing a photoshoot with a new photographer. His angle is capturing the personality and character of the model, and his current portfolio is wicked – there’s a lot of playfulness in the shoots. I guess women can be playful... I’m more socially inept than playful, and my goofiness or “playfulness” comes out of a neurotic desire to fill awkward silences, so I don’t know about that theme. Woooo, creative control.
Prolotherafuckthathurts
So. I have a massive lateral tear in my right ankle that is just flat-out refusing to regenerate, so I've succumbed to prolotherapy. It's 1/2 glucose, 1/2 saline and supposed to help with the healing process... I fell off the bike on the 19th of July and my ankle still buckles after about two steps in a pair of sensible heels. Balls to that.
1. It hurts. It will for the next 24-48 hours, and once home, I'm not supposed to move it.
2. My ankle is swollen with the solution - it looks like there's a cock growing in my foot.
Cockfoot is pained and sad. :(
Good news: Should have time to write about stuff.
1. It hurts. It will for the next 24-48 hours, and once home, I'm not supposed to move it.
2. My ankle is swollen with the solution - it looks like there's a cock growing in my foot.
Cockfoot is pained and sad. :(
Good news: Should have time to write about stuff.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Bangs
Well.
That’s more than enough of a grieving period, I think. Perhaps it’s too mechanical and impersonal, but I firmly stand behind setting a time-limit on mourning – we only live once and it’s a waste of my time to be feeling sorry for myself. Surprise, the world hasn’t ended.
I’m doorbitching at The Fringe this Friday night and I intend on remaining awake and sober for the evening. Last time I committed myself to security, I spent my energies knocking back VIP access to a drunk member of some “huge” Melbourne band, and half of Craig Wing’s self-important entourage. Yes indeedy-do, they really do use “DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!” and resort to calling me all sorts of derogatory and depressingly base names. It’s actually far easier to deal with The Kid throwing a tantrum, but it’s nice to exercise my mettle amongst pompous arseholes. Anyway. After the fracii, I promptly passed over security duties to part-owner of the club night and had myself a lovely little nap next to the VIP room DJ. Not my finest moment, but cut me some slack – I’d been up since 5.30am to tend to a grizzly Kid, and came straight from work.
I must admit, the fun is in knocking back the ugly beautiful. Perhaps I’m betraying some sort of socialite etiquette by not recognizing the Who’s Who of Sydneytown’s elite, but I revel in those that think they are above the rules of this particular club night’s VIP rules – no armband, no entry. Come on – I spend 29-30 days of the month feeling socially inept and awkward! If I’m given the chance to be an openly hostile (door)bitch, then I’m going to bloody well take it. It’s no-tax-cash-in-hand-guilt-free fun.
You’d best bet that I’m going to be relentless this month – I’ve got to work off that surplus negative energy, yo.
That’s more than enough of a grieving period, I think. Perhaps it’s too mechanical and impersonal, but I firmly stand behind setting a time-limit on mourning – we only live once and it’s a waste of my time to be feeling sorry for myself. Surprise, the world hasn’t ended.
I’m doorbitching at The Fringe this Friday night and I intend on remaining awake and sober for the evening. Last time I committed myself to security, I spent my energies knocking back VIP access to a drunk member of some “huge” Melbourne band, and half of Craig Wing’s self-important entourage. Yes indeedy-do, they really do use “DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!” and resort to calling me all sorts of derogatory and depressingly base names. It’s actually far easier to deal with The Kid throwing a tantrum, but it’s nice to exercise my mettle amongst pompous arseholes. Anyway. After the fracii, I promptly passed over security duties to part-owner of the club night and had myself a lovely little nap next to the VIP room DJ. Not my finest moment, but cut me some slack – I’d been up since 5.30am to tend to a grizzly Kid, and came straight from work.
I must admit, the fun is in knocking back the ugly beautiful. Perhaps I’m betraying some sort of socialite etiquette by not recognizing the Who’s Who of Sydneytown’s elite, but I revel in those that think they are above the rules of this particular club night’s VIP rules – no armband, no entry. Come on – I spend 29-30 days of the month feeling socially inept and awkward! If I’m given the chance to be an openly hostile (door)bitch, then I’m going to bloody well take it. It’s no-tax-cash-in-hand-guilt-free fun.
You’d best bet that I’m going to be relentless this month – I’ve got to work off that surplus negative energy, yo.
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