Counting Your Chickens



Serves me right for thinking positively.

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Do you know I actually have a blog feed in my brain? Whenever I’m struggling in my day, I mull sentences and words combinations around. Poetry in grey matter. But then I get to the end of my day, when I usually find the willpower to compose a post, and my words just bumble out. Sort of like when you imagine what running/sprinting  is like . . . in your head it’s purest grace in motion,; arms pumping, legs fluid, sand kicking up behind you. However, the reality is trying to cross your blue-metal gravel driveway with no shoes on, at dusk on a winter’s evening.

Thursday I helped a friend, let out a LOT of emotion, talked honestly with two caring girlfriends, ate (reasonably) properly, got up at a reasonable hour and went to bed at a reasonable hour. On Friday, I got up at 9:00 and took Max for a walk on the beach then spent the day doing odd jobs including some gardening – way to break the depressive mould! Yesterday (Saturday) I got up at a reasonable hour, scrounged $7.50 from every possible shrapnel cove I could think of, then contemplated what would happen if i spent it ’cause I still have 48 hours to go before I had any real money and I have no food in the house to eat until then.

So I didn’t go to the shops to spend my riches. I wallowed at home, watching shit on the Interweb after cooking three greenish potatoes and trying not to dissolve in tears – again!

Last night was a virtual nightmare. I retired at 11pm but spent the next twelve hours in hellish night sweats having violent nightmares and waking up with a sandpaper-dry mouth every few hours. My paranoia wasn’t eased by Max’s constant barking and low growling at something outside of the window at 1:30am.

So tomorrow, I try again. Getting up at 8:30 (I know, I know – boo hoo Pia – 8:30 is so early!). Walking to an appointment to try to stimulate some seratonin. And try to build a life I couldn’t give a fuck about because every day I want to be dead. A wishful thought that I am not allowed to have unless I contract a terminal illness and then everyone will understand and let me die in peace.

Until that day, I have to pretend to want to life by making plans and building a business and keeping ‘the mask’ in place so that they don’t have to feel like they’ve ‘lost’ something. Because that’s what suicide is. isn’t it? A waste? A loss?

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I thought it would be a nice thing to do.

There is a homeless man in Busselton (yep – just the one, that’s how rich my society is!!!), and he carts his wares around the Busso CBD and foreshore in a shopping trolley. Every now and then I see a man who takes him coffee and sits and chats with him.

I wish I could do that, but I can’t stand strong smells. I don’t care that this makes me sound like a wanker – it’s just how I am.

However, I would like to try to raise the funds to house him at a local motel for 6 months. I worked out that if I charge $5 per person (a one-off amount), that I would need 2700 individuals to keep him off the streets for up to 6 months. (6 months = 180 days x $75 = $13,500 / $5) to pay for him to be housed, safe, warm, washed and valued. His pension can take care of food. In that time I could hound work with Centrelink to get him some State Housing accommodation.

But then I thought I couldn’t do that. Who the fuck do I think I am, trying to ‘save’ someone? Man, I really can be a sanctimonious self-important wanker.







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