Rolling

Tonight was the first truly warm night of the season. I celebrated the occasion by increasing the bass by one notch on the car stereo equaliser now that I can drive with the window down where it doesn't rattle. I've been feeling old lately, but cruising through the suburbs in my Czech Station Wagon, music pumping as I stick to the 40km speed limit made me feel alive and cool, especially with my new office gaming chair in the back, and the tax invoice in my wallet.


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If you met yourself from the future, what would you ask your future self?
What if they wont tell you anything?


My First Baby Shower

I didn't know what to expect at the first baby shower I've ever attended, but it wasn't spending fifteen minutes trying to get a football down from a tree.

image 1976 from bradism.com

Eventually it popped out.

Unseasonal

Spring used to be my favourite season. Blooming flowers were the tonic for grey, winter skies, and some mornings in the sunshine my endocrine system would leave me feeling no more sophisticated a creature than the bees that buzzed about the swollen stamens around me.

image 1975 from bradism.com

I've been around the sun enough times now to recognise spring for what it really is: A blind, reckless orgy. And it sickens me. On a dry continent, in an era where we must be frugal with resources, this exhibition is mostly a brief and wasteful burst of Instagram-esque vibrance which doesn't represent reality. Literally days later the seeds are swaying in the breeze, the petals are rotted and falling, and the desiccated creepers are flopped and curled across the footpath in perfect postures of post-climatic clarity. Fuck Spring. Those weeks of blossom and sweet fragrances weren't worth the coming summer of prickles in socks, the withered, brown vines, or the extreme fire danger. Spring is nothing but a microcosm of life, a brief vignette of hormones followed quickly by decay. I don't need to see that every October.

Yes my favourite jasmine plant is dying, and no I'm not happy about it.


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Snapped

I timed it, and it takes sixteen minutes to get through all my morning stretches. That doesn't seem like much, but it's a decent chunk of seconds when I'm trying to wake up, shower, drink two litres of icy smoothie, walk a dog and still be out the door by 7:42. Unfortunately, if I don't stretch, getting through the day becomes immesuarably more painful.

I also stretch and rehab every night, which only makes it more annoying; It takes sixteen minutes of morning stretches just to recover from sleeping in a bed.

Tendinopathyapathy

I've had the same injuries for so many years now that I think I'm beyond rehabilitation. My physios all have had good intentions, but I've realised my appointments are really just physiological psychotherapy: A chance to talk in private about how my muscles and joints are feeling, and leave with just enough optimism to get me through until the next fortnight's appointment.

Sorted

I sort my trash for recycling into plastic bottles, aluminium cans, brown glass, green glass, clear glass, soft plastics, coffee pods, mixed recycling, lids and bread ties, batteries, organic waste, and - if anything is left - it goes into garbage.
So I should be safe from climate change.

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