undefunctification

This blog is apparently defunct. In order to undefunctify it, I present the first in my at-least-one part series: Guest Blogs. This evening's blog was written by one of the Watergate burglars. Or maybe that gay librarian from QC. You decide.

As an aside, I'd like to just mention how pleased I am to be a Publisher. There is a certain power in it, a kind of sense of responsibility to journalistic integrity coupled with a knowledge of the power to make false attributions. To influence thought by promulgating the thoughts of others. It's exciting. -ed.

I have been considering various topics of bloggage since mjec so graciously extended the offer. I thought I should write about sex. Why not take the opportunity to drastically and embarrassingly over share, right? Surely the polite thing to do. I had various headings in mind "Can you enjoy doggy style and still be a feminist?" was an early contender. I wasn't really sure about what to say apart from YES! And that seemed just a little brief, and I hate the phrase "doggy style". I think someone just needs to re-brand the position with a more appealing name really... [hitting it with a lower case h? -ed.] Anyway, I'm sure that I must be the first person in their early twenties to decide that sex is really quite fun.[1]

It is though isn't it? These days I find myself remembering this at the oddest moments, on public transport I suddenly remember that horribly/deliciously dirty (in a kind of clichéd way) thing you said when you had your fingers THERE and just THAT look on your face and your voice was hoarse and... oh. Much more concerning is the thought at the family dinner table, just after my mother passed me the potatoes.[2] I think of the way sex used to make you sweat, raking my fingers through your slightly damp head of hair as your fingers grabbed at the sheets. My mother must have some kind of psychic abilities, because just then she asks about you, or something that refers to you. But if you want to read about that kind of stuff you can read Fear of Flying which is much better written.

I fleetingly considered writing about the horrible disillusion that comes from realizing that I am fast reaching the age of being a grown up. Terrifying. I refuse to be responsible. I have options - apparently education can't stretch on forever into the distance. On a tangentially related topic, whatever happened to us? You know, you and me. Sitting on the back seat of the bus telling each other everything. Writing lists of the people we like in our class, swapping food - my muesli bar for your roll up. And what about you? We used to talk late into the night, I liked you so much I almost forgot amongst the strange joy of being the first to know all those secrets. You were sweet and clever.[3] What about you? Who actually physically held me together when I cried my homesickness out, you read French novels in our sun soaked apartment and developed a liking for vegemite. I used to borrow your clothes.

The answers are disturbingly simple of course. You and I no longer live on the same bus route. You like the ones with the strange piercings and I like the ones with the glasses. Perhaps you weren't so clever or so sweet. And now neither of us really have the time to stay up late talking about pointless shit. Maybe all we have in common are 4 months under the sun, learning how to eat noodle soup with chopsticks and the proportions of rice wine to coke which make it almost bearable. Don’t worry, at least we still have Facebook.[4]

The same goes for the other, I never remember feeling comfortable being a teenager (perhaps just before my 20th birthday). This doesn't bode well for my poor, possible-future children (will I EVER adjust to that?).

You know in the interests of keeping this under nanowrimo length I should probably stop here. Except to say: go out and fuck someone hot tonight. [I'm not sure I will ever do this and that makes me sad -ed.] If this isn't an option/desirable I would suggest downloading Page France - We Remain as Two, drinking a few glasses of wine and really obsessing over past loves and kindred spirits. You'll regret it but it'll be nice and poetic.

[1] Although apparently some disagree... why?
[2] Ok, major telepathic play list moment. Just as I was tying this the song Dirty Girl by the Eels started playing (the opening lines are "I love a girl with a dirty mouth" - don’t we all? [Yes. Yes we do. -ed.]).
[3] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7B7bVD_DkM4&feature=related
[4] Look, this is a good final line. I’m not as cynical as it implies though. I am glad we still have Facebook.