I'm cyclical; I'm a person who reads life in circles. I'm cyclical because all my worst habits (neurosis, hyperlexia, paranoia) feed into themselves. I'm cyclical beause I think to a point where I've thought about nothing. Have you ever considered unicellular consciousness? It's sensation withot progress; memory without cognition. That is me, wired to my information machine, searching for what I want in tides of pixelated splinterlight.

 

I hate the fact that for a whole week I did hardly any work, claiming that I needed the internet to do it, and now I've sat here on the internet for hours and fuck knows what work I've done. Just the fact that I'm connected, though, means that I feel more on top of the work. Arbitrary surely, but true; the internet is auxiliary to my sensorium, like depth perception or inner ear balance.

 

I'm waiting for history for be carried out to its logical conclusion, where medicine and law, the technical noise engines of humanity, realise their purposelessness. Eden, Utopia, Elysia; all of the surging heights of dream theatre can't compare.

Oh mother, I had a day. Let me tell you something about it; so far, it ends with me sitting here listening to Bjork on repeat singing 'don't get angry with yourself' and typing the memory scraps of my nightmare night. The first scrap involves me getting out of my mum's car with Lex, thinking how this night will be awesome and how Imma get the chance to see all those people I went to school with and how they're going and shit. An hour and a half later I'm happy with a few drinks in me, dancing a little sheepishly because I'm not quite drunk enough to fully let go of all dignity yet. I'm remembering a tiring O'Day at UWA, where I disappointed some friends by being lame, and went home wrecked by excessive sunlight. At 11.45 I'm leaving the Somerville auditorium thinking about what a great time I'll have today; at 3.00pm I'm wondering why I went in the first place. And yeah, of course at 10.30 pm I'm at that party, remembering this bullshit that happened and thinking that another drink will be the ticket. Fifteen minutes later I get bored with the music and decide to see some peeps; as I'm walking from the building I notice the floor's glistening with some liquid; five seconds later i'm horizontal with the face of a parent suddenly jutting into my vision. there are people all around me now and me, thinking 'what the fuck' starts to panic and then I'm not breathing like animals do. Then I'm sitting on a bench surrounded by a crowd of friends, but being a person dogged by numbing paranoia I'm thinking about the people not there, about the people not giving a shit. I'm listening to Tyra Banks on centre stage in my head telling me to be strong and I'm thinking for her to fuck off and tell it to the fucking models. Stephen, a living legend, walks me around the oval. The rest of the night is sour as vomit. Stuck with the status of 'the dude everyone walks up to and asks if he's ok' for the rest of the night, I try to deal with it and head back to the dancefloor and have fun. For the next hour I'm looking at happy faces and hugging appreciative people while my mind tells them they're talking a shitstorm about me, and what's this shit about self-respect that Tyra Banks is still trying to sell to me like the bulshit of that fucking chickenwing priest that UWA parades around? Fuck this, I'll  wander around the party like a weirdo who stepped in dogshit but trust me, that gets old and I want to get home because my bed is the best thing i can think of right now. So yeah, then I'm sitting on a wood fence, hearing the music die down and watching the other people leave, wondering where in the name of fuck my taxi is. A phone call to the taxi company tells me it came, but they couldn't find anyone. The dude I sat next to in economics for a year says goodbye to me and I'm too busy yelling obscenities at the worker on the line to say goodbye back. I cross the road to get to a house with an address and ask for another taxi; yeah, its coming. Rave music is the scariest type of music, I ponder, thinking of these grinding synth lines and tectonic beats that sound like they came from Hell. Everyone's left the party now and I'm standing like an idiot for the successor to the taxi that never came. Bayswater is a nightmare suburb, with yells in the distance and dark houses, the addresses of which I've illegitimately given to a taxi driver, and parties that only wind down, and never become awesome. My paranoia sits on the shoulder in place of the angel AND the devil, and I've got only my paranoia to thank for my head also winding away. Again, I remember my disappointing O'Day and how much the trinity dudes seemed to not care much about talking to me. Understandable though right, considering your little performance not being able to breathe and falling over at Trents party? Remember once again, that night was supposed to be the night of your life. And that taxi ride was supposed to be a journey to safety, and instead you're fucking looking at this taxi driver as if he's going to drive into a back street and kill you, and when it finally finished you hate God for making that first EFTPOS transaction decline. Fucking let me die. The relief that you feel when you finally get out of that fucking taxi is then killed by the fact that your key won't open the door because your dad fucking deadbolted it. So I call my home number and mum gets up and opens the door, and I walk in, telling her in not so many words what I've just told you, starting with 'oh mother i had a day'. Right now, and I mean right now as I'm writing this, the music is sigur ros and i'm still a little drunk enough to get lost, and to sleep. Things just suck though, because I spent today and tonight on an alien planet. I won't get angry with myself Bjork, but you have to admit i'm not really justified in respecting myself tonight, nor is that party justified in respecting me. Lets just hope me and my law degree teaches me that there's no such fucking thing as justice. Oh mother, mother I had a day.