you know how fancy people in funny little scarves and shiny cuffs swoosh wine around in their mouths? and then spit it out as if it is truly repulsive, offensive, and uninteresting? and then they go on to talk about its rich undertones and how it (apprently) smells like the ocean mixed with asparagus covered in a rich Chanel No. 5 white-wine reduction sauce? i can't remember the word for it exactly at the moment but i have the sneaking suspicion that it is called 'swilling'.
soon this will be on ESPN as a sport along with chess tournaments, spelling bees, and golf.
the point is, my thoughts are like expensive wine with their numerous undertones and subtle flavours that only the creators and experts can detect. And my mind is like the palette of a pompous, silk-tie-wearing guy who fancies himself important enough that even his farts smell like popery (who else is picturing the guy from Masterchef? anyone? just me? okay.) i swill the things i think about and then swallow and digest thoroughly.
my bedroom is about 2m x 1.5 m. as i was lying in bed this morning, contemplating the outfit i would put on when i got out from under my warm sheets, i was swilling about the idea in my head that there my room is probably about the size of a jail cell. if you got rid of my closet, put in a cot, removed all the homey touches and sharp objects, and added a toilet in the corner, it would be just like the Shawshank Redemption (minus Morgan Freeman).
despite this, i like my little cell. i have everything i need here. sure, i can never move my furniture and the clothes tend to pile up instead of out which means i have to keep it clean or i will wake up one morning and find them up to my ceiling. but i don't need a fancy tv, or a nice stereo, or a big closet, or a big dancing space or even a toilet in the corner. who does?
i like my purple walls and my fairy lights and my collaged closet doors and my tiny mirror and my window hanging.
here's the bit where i take a small detour: i just saw my dog rubbing his little tiny nose into the carpet to scratch it. my dog is a fluffy rat. his snout is exactly one inch long. just thought i'd give you a visual. so cute.
the reason for all this nostalgia about my bedroom is that there has been talk of moving as of late........
it's not like it would be a super huge move or anything, really only 10 minutes away. but:
A. that's 10 minutes further out of town and 10 minutes closer to the suburbia-cult that is the soccermom infested area of Raby Bay. i'm already ages away and i'm allergic to implants...
B. i love my little house. i finally know where everything is, i get my neighbourhood. the boxes are unpacked for the first time in a long time.
C. moving means acquiring a new family. granted, i like athlete pete (my mum's partner (i hate this word but 'boyfriend' seems to stupid and childish for my 40-year-old mother. i can get away with it because i'm seventeen) but i just got used to my brother in law living in the house! i miss the good old days when i could leave the bathroom door open... is now really the time to add 'steps' to my life?
whatever, i suppose there is bribery involved in moving. i've been promised a big room, a big bed, and a big tv to ensure that my new space becomes MY space. but how Judas would it be for me to just sell out like that?
for now, i've got at least 5 months of purple walls, knowing which knob turns the hot water in the shower on, and swilling. cheers, Matt Preston.