Sitting out the front of Buzzzbar on King St I noticed the tattoo shop next door doing a roaring trade. I've been keeping an eye on the shop for weeks, there's something in there I've been secretly coveting. I've been walking backwards and forwards past the shop window too frightened to stop and go in and get what I want. I've been put off by the people in the shop, they look mean.
I was forced out of the house last night by the worst case of restlessness I've had for a while. This can happen if you sit very still reading for an entire day but walking the streets of Newtown didn't do it for me last night. I wore my very favourite red shoes but still nothing, not a drop of whimsical humanity to feed off. Out of sheer desperation I trekked up to Gould's bookshop of horror hoping to at least become frightened and trapped under an immense pile of used books which is a distinct possibility in that place. The only thing that happened was that I started to regret my black bean burrito and had to squirm past the stacks of books at the end of each aisle to avoid rancid suffocation. I spent a few minutes perusing a pile of dusty old Blue magazines, staring in fascination at photo after photo of gay men with cock rings but still nothing happened. Not even one disapproving look from a random stranger. Back out in the real world it was pissing down and miserable. I walked slowly, hands in pockets, head bent against the rain towards my final destination. Sipping soy lattes and pushing fig and almond flan around my plate I caught sight of a newly tattooed woman come laughing out into the street and I thought bugger it, I'm going in.
I got my money ready, reapplied lip balm and pushed open the door. This was no time for cowardice so I strode confidently right up to it put my money in turned the handle and got the bright glowing red gumball of my dreams. So great was my triumph that I flagged down a taxi and arrived home in style blowing the best bubbles you've ever seen. So it seems it is worth overcoming your fears to get what you dream of.
I was forced out of the house last night by the worst case of restlessness I've had for a while. This can happen if you sit very still reading for an entire day but walking the streets of Newtown didn't do it for me last night. I wore my very favourite red shoes but still nothing, not a drop of whimsical humanity to feed off. Out of sheer desperation I trekked up to Gould's bookshop of horror hoping to at least become frightened and trapped under an immense pile of used books which is a distinct possibility in that place. The only thing that happened was that I started to regret my black bean burrito and had to squirm past the stacks of books at the end of each aisle to avoid rancid suffocation. I spent a few minutes perusing a pile of dusty old Blue magazines, staring in fascination at photo after photo of gay men with cock rings but still nothing happened. Not even one disapproving look from a random stranger. Back out in the real world it was pissing down and miserable. I walked slowly, hands in pockets, head bent against the rain towards my final destination. Sipping soy lattes and pushing fig and almond flan around my plate I caught sight of a newly tattooed woman come laughing out into the street and I thought bugger it, I'm going in.
I got my money ready, reapplied lip balm and pushed open the door. This was no time for cowardice so I strode confidently right up to it put my money in turned the handle and got the bright glowing red gumball of my dreams. So great was my triumph that I flagged down a taxi and arrived home in style blowing the best bubbles you've ever seen. So it seems it is worth overcoming your fears to get what you dream of.
Comments
Or this some weird Creamboy way of expressing your satisfaction with being male?