I miss my best friend.
Can’t he come home for a bit. A smooch. A shag. A jabber. Crap coffee & something he has cooked up.
He is supposed to be calling on the Sat Phone for 2 minutes just now. What if he doesn’t?
He called on Friday night when I was well into a bottle of cheap pink wine & French tooons. Boy, did the tears flow at the sound of his voice. He updated me that life right now is “too hot, too dry, too remote”. And was gone.
I blame this melancholy on the shorter days, the chillier maximums, the long weekend of not too much purpose but too many tequilas with acquaintances part-way through. On the weekly real-job rejections that keep phoning in.
And perhaps that I just went and snuggled my way into “too dependent”? But if you don’t, what’s the point?
What is the point. I’m caught on an endless loop of “What’s The Purpose?”
Diagnosed with Fatalist Depression. There is no cure. Just ignore the questions.
But at least I got to watch my footy team SMASH the ANZAC opposition yesterday at the Cathedral of Sports Stadiums, the MCG.
A mate said if he hadn’t been with me since the start of the game, he’d have thought I was boozed. Several hours of full-on giggle attacks. How can you not be highly amused at the passion and pain of grown spectating men throwing their voices & souls at other grown playing men in minuscule shorts bouncing a ball right towards a victorious loss!
Cause YOU KICK LIKE A GUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRLLLLLLLL!
I miss my best friend. I miss him not being around to laugh at my giggle. Or to tell me when not to drink that “one more” tequila. To tell me that the job rejection doesn’t matter, I’m still worth so much more. And how proud he is that I cycled 20 kms and didn’t collapse in an unfit heap for the rest of the day. To stop the self-reflection sometimes and let me get on with the giggle.