My Neighbour May Think I'm A Drug Dealer...

I have a few reasons as to why I think this.

Number 1:
Whilst I have never tried a drug, I do enjoy recovery clubs and often wander home at weird hours of the day looking like I’ve just spent 5 hours on a podium going spastic to some off the hook bangers. Plus I don't sleep much. I call it the ’sewer rat’ look. Tramp. Circus. Revs. Cloud. TFU. Hidden. Wahs. Humpday. Wherever I can get my ears impounded with bass so heavy it’s like having Satan fight Goku with lightsabers in your basement. It gives me goosebumps… Also not helping.

Number 2:
My neighbour has a love of incense. I’m allergic to that shit. So every time I’m over there I’m scratching and sniffling like a junkie on a come down. From my perspective, I can think of one good reason to be a shardy, there’s only one sleep til Christmas…

Number 3:
As a chef, I have a slight obsession with herbs. So often, I come home from the markets carrying large bunches of leaves. As far as they’re concerned, I‘m selling the best damn scante in Melbourne. I call it “Coriander” or “Corri” as it’s known on the street.

Number 4:
I get paid in cash when I work shifts for clubs. Last week, it was really windy and I had an embarrassingly large wad of notes fall out of my pocket in my driveway and spent the next ten minutes frantically chasing after it with a look resembling the desperation of a sanitary napkin sniffing vampire.

Number 5:
Finally. Handing cash over through a car window to a mate that’s dropped off a festival ticket, at 10:30 at night on a Sunday when you live in a dodgy area… Probably sealed the deal. I swear to god, I’m going to Future Music Festival. As in, I am ACTUALLY going to Future, I’m not just sitting in my bathtub with a couple of points and a tab of acid, THINKING that I’m losing my shit to Boys Noize from atop a cloud hovering the Isle of Man, sipping whiskey with Buddha and Ebenezer Scrooge looking down at 10,000 drunken Irishmen standing on a rock in the middle of the Irish Sea. Tiddly-tee POTATOES!

Now, I’m not really concerned with what they think of me, hell, I rarely care about that. It’s more just a worry that BECAUSE it’s a bit of a ghetto, I am going to be cornered as a new source.

I figure I have two choices. Start making gram baggies of Omo and make a killing until people catch on. Or get a very large, very angry looking dog…