Here in Melbourne the quality of many of our street magazines is questionable to say the least, though whilst cleaning out my shit today I found one I fell in love with precisely 4 years ago. It was a nifty little mag called Lucky, but the reason I loved it so much was for the last page column called EGO TRIPPER written by a fellow named Cry Bloxsome. His particular brand of nonchalant existentialist ramblings appealed both to my douchebag teenage side who thought he was cooler than everyone else, and also my douchebag mature (debatable) side that thought he was smarter than everyone else. That is because Cry Bloxsome is a cool cat. He is insightful and humorous and thinks on equally magnetic levels with both his brain and his dick. The particular issue I perused that dimly lit Melbourne morning contained the column entitled ‘Fake it for the City' which you can read below. To read more of his Ego Tripper columns and other material head to Cry Bloxsome, and check out where to buy his first novel 'Living Between Fucks' for something that is questionable in every other facet bar quality.
My eyelids gained weight and my full lips slackened. My clothes looked messier too, which could be explained by my body beginning to slump. I picked up a glass, drank from it, and put it right back down in the watermark. Like nothing ever happened. Except the glass got emptier and my blood got more alcoholic.
I leaned on the door handle on the way out and gave the outdoor stars the finger sign for Fuck You!
The body is fun to poison when you expect nothing from humanity. Four thousand years now we’ve been recording history and the only obvious achievements have been to increase the population to breaking point, while wildly producing weapons of mass-destruction that look like dicks.
You’d be a fool to get upset by your own irrelevance after the year two thousand.
So, what now?
Irvine Welsh (Author of Trainspotting) asks:
“What can I do, really do for the emancipation of working people in this country”.
His answer is:
“A resounding fuck all.”
You see, I used to think I could be young fast and poor in a high-art way. Then it occurred to me that I’d never really been fast or high-art. That left me with young and poor.
The closest I got to high-art this last year was with a woman. Her name’s a secret but she eats toast better than anyone. When she puts on trucker hats she looks like the flag girl at the Grand Prix. Her fringe goes across her forehead in black strokes. And when she walks down the road towards the sea she calls back ‘Do that’.
“I’ll call you,” I yell.
“Do that!” she answers.
I’ve been ditched before, but getting ditched by her was downright film-able. She waited in the rain wearing pajamas and a jacket, then stepped out of the headlights and into the passengers seat. The car was borrowed. The city was looming up, lit up, and unholy in front of us. I was going to suffocate with the rain on the windows, so I got out and she hugged me at the start of the path. With an even face she says “Bye” and we turn away, and we walk away.
Where do you go. You might fit your life in two bags and leave, but for where. Where is happiness.
I saw two dudes sitting on the ground along Brunswick Street, one was on the heroin nod so his mate tried to wake up by holding a lighter flame to his face. He saw I was looking at him so he took his finger off the button and smiled. I’ve seen it written that the difference between childhood and adulthood is the ability to accept disappointment.
The flight from Perth to Melbourne took three hours. Three hours might be all it takes to fuck a life.
Or start one.