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.