I guess it's kinda cynical that the whole thing felt to me like a scene from a depressing Australian movie where they flash back to 'happier times'. The fireworks, the share-house, the happy relationship moments. If watching movies like Candy has taught me anything, it's all downhill from here. Of course, it could have been more to do with the fact that my glasses were quite dirty and so everything I saw had that frosted edges look that televised flashbacks tend to have. But hey, who knows, right?
It got me thinking - just how is my life likely to take a dramatic downhill turn from this point? I had visions of myself, homeless, wandering the streets, asking passers-by if they could spare a few bucks for some insoles. Following the tradition of a dire future as represented in film and television, I can see future-homeless-me getting some questionable tattoos. I have seen a lot of questionable tattoos in my time so I know what I will be dealing with here. I remember once being in a pub in Newcastle in the middle of the day (the train station was across the road and my friend had missed his train). We somehow began talking to a group of guys who had been in the unfortunate situation of being drunk around tattooing equipment. One guy had a crudely drawn dick and balls on his lower back. Another had the words 'Your Name Here' on his arse. A lifetime of regret for them, but a quiet chuckle for me.
As for the questionable tattoos I would get well, that requires a bit of thought. I do already have a few tattoos, all of which are quite tasteful. The next one I was planning on getting is a few lines from my favourite poem. And I am well aware that this would put me right up in the 'Pretentious Arty Fucks Hall of Fame', but I don't care because it is a beautiful poem that really moved me*. However, if I am going to live up to the reputation of 'crazy homeless lady' I am going to have to get something a bit stranger and altogether more off-putting. I was wondering recently if anyone has ever had other genitals tattooed on their real genitals ie a penis tattooed on the vagina. I was too scared to google it but if it's crazy and off-putting you are going for, I don't think you could really pass that one up. This one also gives you a semi-valid excuse for exposing yourself to strangers, another staple of that particular culture.
So, that's me a few years from now. Crazy, homeless, probably with a menagerie of animals following me wherever I go. Playing a ukulele on the street for spare change. Of course, I would get back on my feet eventually. But how? The most logical answer is that an ad executive hears me singing some kind of insane song parody to myself and hires me to write jingles. I would have my big break with probably either 'O! Valencia!' (an ad for the oranges, to the tune of the Decemberists song) or maybe 'Let's Hear it for the Soy!' (an ad for soy sauce). Oh and if you're wondering, yes I have already written** these jingles so I won't have to rely on my inevitably heroin-addled brain to come up with anything 'clever'.
And thus, the story ends with me raking in the big bucks in the ad jingle market, selling my story to 'That's Life!' magazine and finally getting my aquarium house.
*If you are wondering, the poem is 'My Spectre Around Me Night and Day' by William Blake who is for totals my favourite poet.
** "O! Valencia! With your pulp so sweet in my mouth! Valencia! And I swear to the stars, I will eat this whole thing right now...."
"Let's hear it for the soy! Let's give the soy a hand! Maybe it's no vinaigrette, but for your next sushi banquet, whoah, whoah whoah whoah! Let's hear it for the soy!"