B... E... No no. COFFEE. COFF-EEEE

Due to the 'hot box' like state of my house, I passed out on Heineken on my dining room floor last night.

The combination of cool linoleum, beer and a fan made it seem like a good idea at the time.

I have however, royally fucked my back today.

So if anybody is heading from the city back out east at 10pm tonight, I'd adore a lift.

I will pay you in beer and adoration.

Bleeding ears.

Nothing pains my ears more than the phrase: "Want some fak?"

...

You know what? No. No I do not.

Here, allow me to aggressively hurl this dictionary at your face so that you may escort it back to the treehouse.

I mean please, you wouldn't even know what to do with it.

Alone Time.

I am quite a chatty person. I say chatty, what I mean is more of a downward spiralling helicopter of word vomit ready to plummit whatever topic I feel is of gargantuan importance, directly at your face. In fact, there are times when you'll find it very challenging to actually locate the mute button on my babbling.

Aside from maybe utilising a balled up sock, a Gobstopper or an intense Hawthorn game, I'm quite literally (in the words of David Spade) "the thing that wouldn't shut up".

My boss even went as far once to lower his 6"7' lump of a body to his knees and 'pray' to the skylight "Oh to be Helen Keller!" after asking (purely out of politeness) about my weekend.

But I'm ok with that.

Because I know at least I'll never be taken hostage. Osama would put up with me for 92 seconds before either letting me go or shooting me.

But also because for every moment I'm on one of my golden rolls, I have times when I don't want to talk.

Like for example, before my morning coffee.

A Nazi after a bad haircut and a pebble in his boot on a march in the snow, is in a better mood than me before coffee.

But I've started buying my coffee from a place in the city that I've attached my adoration to. A place that is a good 33 minute train ride from my stop (not that I've timed it or anything when there's a farting man to my left and a screaming baby to my right and ye old stress ball is securely forgotten on my bedside table...)

-cough-

And there's always some random dipshit that wants to be friendly and chat when I'm running on empty.

Now, right at that moment, I don't want to talk. If you're bored, go pat a dog. Yes. That one, the most likely rabies-infested, snarling, choker-chained hyena that's tied up outside BP. Trust me when I say you have less of a chance of being snapped at.

Here comes the cunty point of my story I promise.

I've started wearing earphones.

Nobody talks to you when you have earphones in and if they do, I can just blindly ignore them.

Thing is... I don't have an iPod. Or any music on my phone and my data usage reaches maximum capacity 6 days before the end of the cycle every, freaking, time.

I am simply rolling around Melbourne with earphones in listening to absolutely fuck all.

I think I might be a genius... An asshole no doubt... But quite possibly a genius...

It's Not Just Me.

Yep... Pretty Fucking Humiliated.

I've been through a bit of shit in my life. I mean, fuck, everybody has yeah? The kind of miserable days when you feel like you're walking ankle deep through shitty mud in socks with some 'imaginary friend' with a grey beard looking down on you from the clouds with an expression like those 4 year olds that do the moose ears with their hands going 'nieh ne ne nieh ne'.

You get the point. A really bad fucking day.

I mean I've stood tall for a lot of it, from having dickweed bosses throw limes at me from across the pass to copping the verbal abuse day in, day out, those days kind of suck monkey balls. I figure the chefs did it because they had tiny penises and needed a false ego in order to make up for it so that they wouldn't be found huddled over a bottle of José and a Gourmet Traveller by age 27 wondering what 'could have been'.

But I don't really cry much. At least I haven't for the last ten years. Sure I've had chefs break me, at one point I didn't ever want to step foot in a kitchen again. Thankfully I had the one good chef out of the bunch who pulled me out of the rubble, kicked an oven door in and yelled at me to pull my head in and go back to work.

So I did.

It takes a fair bit to break the tear sockets on me though. My mother tells me I have the interior of melted gold but the exterior of a stone lion. Although I am one of those people that once I start the sobs, you probably should grab a ShamWow and a cup of coffee, 'cos you're gonna be there a while.

The blessing of the kitchen is that I have two escapes. The coolroom, which is a small enclosed refrigerated area with a split design: 50% fridge, 50% individual or group therapy room. You cannot pay any psychiatrist any amount of moolah to get the same release as giving a box of lemons the old steel cap boot busting.

And the other is chopping onions. You can cry your little heart out while mandolining a shallot and nobody's the wiser. Until you cut yourself of course. The mandolin is a chef's best friend and worst enemy.

"Oooh look at the perfectly sliced zucchini sexily garnished with what was a moment ago, the top 7mm of my thumb. Cheers cunt."

But even though I've lost best mates to accidents, illnesses or just grown apart, I've still always thought crying wasn't the option. I really believed that crying in front of your head chef is probably the most defacing act in the world, ever. This morning I discovered how wrong I was.

This morning I said goodbye to my best friend who is going overseas. It started off with a goodbye hug in the car and a few dropping tears. Not sobbing, just a gentle stream, like what you get when you've had a couple of wines and decide to chuck on I Am Sam or The Lion King ("NOOOOO MUFASA NO!). But as I reached the train station to head off to work, it actually dawned on me that I will not see that happy sparkling smile for a very long time.

Safe to say I had a little bit of a breakdown. I didn't sob, I didn't make a noise, I just sat on one of those uncomfortable seats that have clearly been designed for a giraffe and let the salty drops of emotion pool into my lap. They just kept coming like a depressed Sylvia Plath version of a raging orgasm. One after the other of endless tears.

I was comforted however, by a young kid, maybe 17 or 18, who handed me a tissue and sat down next to me and essentially... Let me blast out the whole story.

What a fucking champion. I mean of course I don't think I've been this genuinely humiliated since Bobby Macfarlane kissed me in second grade in front of my teacher and parents, or maybe at Portsea when I got dumped by a mammoth wave resulting in the complete loss of bikini top much to the lifeguards delight...

But who does that? What sk8rboi kid (yes I'm using that spelling for it's comedic and visual effect) just sits down next to a random girl and says "Hey, let it all out, I've got pretty good ears."

So here's to that kid. Who gave me a tissue, a shoulder and nine minutes of his time until the next City Loop express whilst I blurted out how much I'm going to miss my best friend.

Thanks kid, as far as life is concerned, you're doing it right.

Making Pancakes.

I am ashamed to admit this...

But kitchens get hot. Chefs have a little trick to avoid the excessive accumulation of sweat in their crutch region. Essentially it involves no underwear and a fair chunk of talcum powder or corn starch. But as you can imagine, that doesn't STOP the sweat. It sort of just... Absorbs it, morphing it into a paste like consistancy.

Point being, it is so hot in this kitchen right now, I just opened up my service fridge door, put my hands subtly in my pockets and pulled the waist of my checks out. Just to get a breeze.

Hence the phrase: "making pancakes".

Can't Breathe.

The decision to wear a bra underneath a size 6 corset top in order to give off the illusion that I have boobs was undoubtedly, a bad one.

Looks like breathing is just a luxury I can't afford tonight.