Monday, February 25, 2008

I Guess That's Why They Call It The Day Before Your Birthday Blues

It's my birthday tomorrow.

I turn 35.

This is what gets me. It's all supposed to happen tomorrow. I get all the nice phone calls from mates, have a nice lunch, the extended family come over and eat lots of chips, the cake gets cut and wahey, lovely day (apparently).

But it's really today that shits me.

The dread of turning another year and fuck all to show for it. I should be getting all the nice calls now because right now it feels like midway through the third quarter and Carlton's up by 11 goals. Mates have left the ground to console themselves into the sagging breasts at the Cricketers' Arms but because I'm a mindless stoic I force myself to stick around to hear that horribly catchy song.

Let's look at my lot and line it up against Deborah Mailman's character from Secret Life Of Us and her happy life trifecta of good job, good house and good lovin' (which, I'm sure, was paraphrased from the thoughts of a dead Greek).


I regret to inform the other applicant was deemed more suited for the advertised position

Good Job
Not even close. Well, wrong. VERY FRICKEN close. I shit you not but in the past six months since the knee reconstruction I have been "down to the last two" in not one, not two or even three interviews but EIGHT, YES EIGHT, THE LAST FUCKING EIGHT great full time jobs I've interviewed for. No really, down to the last fucking two applicants in all of them.

"Down to the last two" shit's wearing me down folks.

If it wasn't for the odd freelance writing gig popping outta nowhere I'd be insane and broke.


Our house in the middle of the street, yesterday.

Good House
You often read about people in their 30s living with their parents. I'm one of them. Great. No amount of Foxtel, cable internet or daily walks in one of Melbourne's leafier suburbs can make up the constant fear that lazy journalists are writing tired articles about you.


!?

Good Lovin'
Yeah, right. As if.

So when I should be getting ready to hum You Say It's Your Birthday, It's My Birthday Too, Yeah for the next twenty four hours, I can only really hear one song....
Bup badup badup,
Bup badup badup badup badup badup,
Here come the navy blues,
The old dark navy blues.
And it's awful.

6 comments:

Anonymous said...

it could be worst your nose could be gushing blood

or it could be much much worst..

http://www.flickr.com/photos/easement/sets/149047/with/5952723/

happy birthday!!
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Alison said...

If I still had the energy to actually go and clean up my crap on Facebook, I'd redirect all my fake internet love to you on your birthday.

Gen said...

I'm not going to try and cheer you up since I don't know you very well, Nina probably did a much better job already and because I read this way after your birthday. So instead I'm going to nod my head and then say tht none of us have all three of those balls juggled and those of us who claim we have are lying cunts. I currently have a total of half a ball in the air, perhaps I'm kinda holding it but it's covered in butter. The other two balls have been lost in the long grass for months now and I'm losing motivation to keep looking for them.

Blegh. That was the sound of me vomiting on all my metaphors. I apologize.

reuben said...

"Down to the last two" shit's wearing me down folks."

dude, this happened to me 6 times in 2004-2006.

i KNOW whereof you speak.

Glenn said...

Well, since writing this I've had two of the best jobs I could ever think of AT THE SAME TIME.

Staff writer for aid agency, Save the Children and football coach of the Collingwood Football Club aligned team for homeless and disadvantaged, The Melbourne Magpies.

Heaven.

But now the footy season is over and the contract with Save the Children ends and it's time to find a new gig.

Girly and house-wise? Not even close, my dear Sirs.

Collingwood Song said...

Nice work with the Melbourne Magpies!