Tramcar

Two drowsy nights, sleeping later and later doing absolutely nothing online. I've been holding up by surviving on my regular chocolate fix and occasional perve at the gym, but otherwise relentlessly kicking for some excitement and unpredictability.

One hundred bucks away, and a tram full of eager-to-be-drunk passengers, I made my way into the dimly lit space. Marcs shirt, cheesy $10 jeans and a dollop of Issey, I felt like I was worth $1mil.

Dips to start off the evening with the homophobic chef and half a dozen screaming queens sipping away at the cheap Chardonnay and watered-down vodka-on-ice. The streets outside seemingly glide across the windows like moving portrait on the wall. Sweet. Looking out at the people walking on the pedestrian pathways along High St, I’m suddenly reminded of Howl’s moving castle.

Playing with the four forks and three knives on the table in front of me, I realise that they are, in fact, the same length. So much for the 'fine dining' experience. Even the plates are the same diameter.

The couple next to us feels the jitters as we go about our flamboyant conversations across the length of the tram. We're having a good time at the expense of others. How rewarding! We should crash more parties like this next time.

The boyfriend takes photos of me on his camera, with the wrong exposure, wrong ISO, wrong aperture size, and wrong focus. I look like a fuzzy monster, illuminated from the back.

5-minute stopover at Albert Park. Group photo. Everybody smiles naturally except me; I look like a prostitute with my sly posture. I'm so out of sync after the four glasses of chardy and two champy, one Bourbon-on-ice and a sip of red from the boyfriend's glass. Chalks is feeling unwell; his head is as hot as a hotpot. Taxi home for the poor boy. Wish he could stay longer and get drunk together.

Back on the tramcar and we're having Cognac that tastes like jet-fuel. I can tell the waiter is starting to get pissed because we keep swapping seats around the tram. Its fun. Straight men just don’t get it.

Old couple opposite us are really starting to lose their nerve. Sorry for the gay-gestures, we can't help it. Especially the old shriveled lady, she's over it now, playing with her dessert while her husband looks on. Yes, go on, dig deeper into that pudding of yours, bitch.

Harder, I said.

She jolts her knife into the pudding and crushes it. Good girl.

~

The Peel. How did we end up here? Dancing trashily on the dance floor I attract no attention. My Aquilla's are cutting into my heels as I dance to Dannii. I can't remember anything else.

Soon before I know it I'm sitting on the couch at home. How did I get here?

Happy birthday to the boyfriend.