Early tomorrow morning I'm leaving for Queensland.
This has happened so suddenly yet so gradually too. I don't how that works, but that is how it feels.
Today I began packing. Which for me, is just a process of grabbing all the shit you think may serve some small purpose in the future and stuffing it into bags. Once the bags are full you put the shit in boxes. Once they are overflowing, the loose crap you're certain you'll have some use for at some stage is just thrown into the back of the ute along with your bike, boogie board (I'll be two hours from the coast, but I'm sure I'll use it), tent, esky and dog that will eventually clamour her way up onto the mountain of crap to dose as the ute flies north up the Newel Highway at 100 kilometers an hour.
Right now bits of pieces of things I'll need still lie discarded in numerous corners of the room. Things I'll eventually need to find and find some place for amongst my 'coming with me' pile.
But, I prefer to call them 'loose ends' that are loose for a reason while I lie on the couch watching ET News and complaining to Mum about my sunburn.
Dad is on the phone every bloody half hour telling me how this whole expedition is a 'wild goose chase' that'll kill my dog, wreck my ute, fuck up my education and destroy my chances of ever becoming a journalist. And I wonder whether he means in that order.
I'm trying to find that fucking thing or this fucking thing that I accuse Mum of hiding just to further aggravate the shit outta me.
Occasionally I wander outside to find my dog for some kind of comfort, but she looks at me with eyes that make me feel guilty for once again taking her halfway across the friggin' country away from Dad's dog Brandy, who will probably have a nervous breakdown after just one week of Maggie being gone. Shit shit shit.
My friends are ringing up on the phone saying they'll be at the pub tonight for farewell beers. And it'll be the last time I ever see....... him. What will he say when he finds out tonight I'm leaving early tomorrow? Will he care? Fuck, I don't want to think about it.
And Mum has just cracked it, "It's going to be fucking 32 degrees tomorrow! Why aren't we leaving today!? This is the last time I ever do this for you! You can't wear those boots working! We are leaving at 7am tomorrow or not at all! Get off the fucking computer!".
I just sit here and wish that I smoked....anything.
The time is ticking by and I'm staring down at my bloated gut that was flat a few days ago and my sunburn hurts. And shit! My Ipod is fucking broken again! Ohh, fuck where's my Cold Chisel cd? My Ute still hasn't been given a once over and Dad went and got me some new work boots that I can't wear because they are the wrong sort, even though he knew what the right sort were and had seen the right sort sitting RIGHT NEXT TO THE ONES HE HAD FUCKING BOUGHT!
Fine don't come Mum, you pain in the arse. I never asked you to come anyway.
"Shut up Mum!"
I wanna find a brick wall and smash my brains against it.
I wonder how pissed she'll be when I stumble home from the pub drunk at midnight.