The Ashes

I care more about the pursuit of removing hairs from my toilet bowl than I do about cricket, and wish people would stop asking me what I think of the ashes just because I’m Australian. The only thing I know about cricket is that Shane Warne was punching well above his weight when he was shagging Liz Hurley, and that some dude drank 52 beers on a flight from Australia to London in the 80s and that’s fucking cool.

I need to go to bed.

Got up off the lounge and went to turn the ceiling fan off with the TV remote. Time for bed. But quickly, this girl who approached me after a gig I played last Friday night stopped texting me yesterday. I was playing it cool, giving way less attention than she was giving me. She seemed extremely keen to chat, initiating all text conversations. She had also creepily liked some of my facebook photos (including one almost two years old). Then bam. Gone. Mid conversation, just stopped replying forever. We’d already made plans to hang out on Saturday. But she’s ignored two spaced-out messages now, so I can’t send her another message asking if it’s still on. I have dignity. And I’m supposed to be moving overseas in like four weeks, so I don’t really know what I’d hoped to achieve by going on a date. I don’t want an Australian girlfriend. I want to meet one in the UK with a sweet accent.

I would spend more time thinking about why I may have received the infamous flake, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s not to ever try understand this stuff.