No matter where you go, there you are

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I’m really happy.
I mean, I’m so darn happy it’s hard to believe it’s legal, and harder yet to figure out what the contributing factors are to this state of bliss.
I must be doing something right, possibly everything, but none of this makes any sense to me.
No love, no money, homeless and in financial debt; who would have thought that’s the recipe for a blissful existence? Perhaps there’s some truth to the whole “less is more”-theory after all. I never could fully believe that paradox before, but now it seems to prove itself as a rather powerful axiom.
Either way, it goes to show that happiness is a state of mind more than anything, and I feel compelled to believe that outer circumstances have even lesser effect than I’ve previously ascribed them.
But then again, it could just be the nearly daily intake of succulent, affordable thai-food that is raising my spirits to a new high.

I ride my bike through Newtown, singing along in the chorus of “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch” as it’s hitting my eardrums, without even trying to contain my elation. I can’t help myself, sings the Four Tops, and I feel like I know exactly what they mean. I’m dancing on the bike while zapping between cars, my helmet-clad head bopping from side to side, and the smiling faces that greet me might very well be nothing other than a facial reaction to confusion, but they’re smiles nonetheless.
I veer off the main road and ride into the residential area. Here the streets are littered with petals from frangipani that fill the air with an irresistible scent, and this odoriferous tsunami slams into my nostrils, administering a high that puts yet another long-lasting smile on my face.
My life is beautiful one day, perfect the next. How long could this possible last? I’m not on drugs here, folks, I barely drink coffee, but for some reason or another, I feel curiously strong and exceedingly content.

I’m taking many positive steps towards forming new friendships. My most recent effort is to befriend a Pete whom I met at Willy’s going away-bbq. We met again at the fundraiser, so this time I prompted him for his number, as is my custom now. I don’t have the luxury to be coy about asking for people’s contact information, lest I want to be friendless and alone for the rest of my time here. Plus, refusing to acknowledge that you’re enjoying someone’s company would be to play a part in the nonsensical game that so many people seem wrapped up in; “Whoever Shows the Least Interest Wins!”
Exactly what you win is not clear, but either way I’m no longer participating in that sport, so these days I happily profess when someone’s personality tickles my fancy.

Sunday morning I went to meet with one of the photographers that had approached me about a modeling gig, and 4 hours later I jumped up on my bike with $400 in cash in my pocket. Tempting as it was to go and splurge on a new perfume in the nearby cosmetics store, the money was by no means superfluous, so I soon decided it would be irresponsible to spend it on something that’s not essential when you have as many debts as I currently do.
“Your time will come”, I said to the Victor & Rolf Flowerbomb perfume-bottle in the store window that beckoned for me to spend some of my Aussie dollars on that little flask of fragrant loveliness.
I managed to force myself to walk away, and gave myself a pat pat pat on the shoulder for being so responsible. I did indulge in a new toothbrush in the next store, however, since it was only $1, and when I used it later that night I was certain this was the world’s most amazing toothbrush ever.
I’m the type of person who makes genuine commercials on a daily basis, being of an easily excited nature, and on top of that very vocal in my enthusiasm. As I started brushing my teeth that night, I literally grunted with delight as the little straws circulated against my mouths interior, and I think I even took it out and looked at it in sheer admiration while whispering: “Oh my God… That feels amazing!”
It’s an Oral B Indicator, for those of you who would appreciate some dental gratification, and no, Oral B is not paying me for this ad, I mean blog.

My new friend Pete and I went for some Lebanese pizza on Sunday afternoon, and as we were strolling around in Newtown after the meal, we walked by a massive, beautiful tree, ideal for climbing, or just admiring. Should my state of contentment eventually subside, I’ll just go there and play around in the long, strong limbs of this colossal tree, and happiness will surely be restored within the hour. Few things are comparable to the sense of freedom I get from climbing trees, and it’s impossible to focus on any of life’s adversities when you’re mapping your ascending route amongst the robust branches.

Monday morning I had another photo shoot scheduled before work, this one a wee bit less convenient than the first. I had requested to start the book job at 9am instead of 8 to buy myself some extra time for this, but in the end I was late anyway.
I got up at 5am, hustled to get to the right train station by 6am, arrived at the location at 7. We shot until 8am, and then sat in the craziest traffic for what felt like eternity. We pulled up at my job 20 minutes late and I now had 7 hours of work ahead of me, but also $100 in my pocket. Heck, as long as I’m making money I can deal with most things, and I can’t pass up a hundred bucks at this point, so all is good.

My search for the perfect apartment continues, and the last time I went on a viewing I was certain my quest was over. The room was nice, the location perfect, the price lower than expected, the rest of the house neat, and the one roommate I met was genuinely kind.
Unfortunately, she was also genuinely Christian, along with the other roommate, a fact that called for one rather disturbing restriction; I would never be allowed to have a sexual partner stay over. Since I’m single I didn’t immediately see this as a problem, especially not since everything else was so peachy about the place, but the next day it started sinking in on me.
I don’t really see myself dating anyone anytime soon, but that could very well be because I haven’t met anyone I would want to date. If I do, however, I would damn sure want to be able to have that person stay over at my place without drama, and to paint myself into a celibate corner might not be a smart idea, regardless of how desperate I am to find a room.
But then again; how annoyed would I be if a year from now I’ve remained as untouched as the turn signal of an Asian woman’s car (ha ha), all the while living in a skanky and expensive apartment far from the city? I can totally see this happen, as the housing market in Sydney is rough, to say the least. Any advice on what you think I should do?

And while we're on the topic of my marital status, I’d just like to make it clear that I’m only single because Jemaine Clement hasn’t asked me out - yet.
Jemaine, if you read this, let's have dinner and get friendly with one another. I've been bonkers for you since I saw "Mother Uckers", so half the work is already done. All that remains is for you to fall for me, but that is easy peasy. Just meet me.

The other day I was walking down the street when a woman caught up with me to ask what perfume I use. I told her it’s Fuel For Life by Diesel, and then we chatted until going our separate ways. It had only been a day or two since my battle with the urge to buy Viktor & Rolf's Flowerbomb, and I saw this as an obvious sign from Life, who through a brief encounter with a stranger clearly communicated that I had been a complete brat for whining about not having the money to purchase another perfume. I had no choice but to agree. Silly me.

Later that day I was exploring the streets of Newtown when a rather handsome guy stopped me to ask for the fastest way to George Street. I gave him the directions, and he asked me if I’d be willing to go with him if he hailed a cab to go there.
“Is this your way of picking up girls?” I asked, a question much too direct for him to be able to offer an intelligible response. I stretched out my hand and shook his, wished him good luck and resumed walking.
The lack of finesse among Aussie boys is really quite astounding, which suggests that maybe I should just take the celibacy-room after all.
And let me ask this: What the snap is up with the honking? I assume you men sound the horn to express that you've noticed a woman's existence, but what about it? I already know I’m visible. Now I also know that you have functioning vision, which I guess is reassuring considering that you’re driving a vehicle, but you don’t have to alert me to this fact by honking.
What on Earth are you hoping for? That I’ll pull up my shirt to flash my boobs on which I’ve scribbled down my number just for these very occasions? Or run after your moving vehicle, screaming in hopes you'll hear me through your window: “Call me, let's do lunch! You seem so great, and from the way you sound your horn, I think you might be the one.”
I really don't get it.

I was walking back from the grocery store last night ,and stopped by at a café to grab some free postcards. There was a guy sitting right underneath them, and he started talking to me as I leaned over him. He and the girl at the other side of the table were discussing something, and he wanted to hear my opinion on why people never get what they want. I said it was my conviction that most people will never be content with what they have, and when always wanting more, you’ll subsequently always feel like you’re not getting what you want.
He nodded at this, and asked me another question, and next thing I knew I was wrapped up in a rather interesting discussion about philosophy and life attitudes. When hearing that I was chasing housing, he said he could set me up near Adelaide in June. At this offer I pulled out my mobile phone and we exchanged numbers. I obviously have no idea what kind of situation I’ll find myself in by June, but I’d be foolish to discount anything at this point.

Today after work I went to the used books-store to sell off what I had picked up at work for the second time. Last time I received $22 for a bunch of crap-books, this time I got $20 for three quality books. Quick math adds this up to $42 in two visits, and I still have a stack at home that I couldn’t fit in to my backpack the first time (not to mention the endless supply at my job). I could pay half a weekly rent with this money if it keeps going this well. Me likey.

With the $20 in my pocket I went to the post office to send off a package to a friend. Not only was it about twice the U.S. price of shipping stuff abroad, but they also requested to see my ID. I didn’t have it on me, so I asked if it was really necessary. Yes, the Australian Post Office would not consider shipping a package overseas without confirming I was who I claimed to be. I turned around and asked the first guy behind me in line if he had his ID on him. He did, so I asked if he’d mind helping me out. He'd be happy to, so I had him show his ID to the lady behind the counter, then I filled out my name on the slip, and surprisingly enough she was happy with this combination of information.
“What are we doing here?” the guy whispered to me as I was filling out the slip.
“I’m not sure,” I answered, “but somehow your ID is just as good as mine when proving that I am indeed me.” He looked a bit perplexed by this answer, but I explained that he had just saved me a trip home only to get my ID, and then I thanked him for his assistance.
This would never fly in Sweden, I thought to myself as I walked out of the post office. There would be an hour-long investigation about all the possible consequences for the ID-lender, and in the end he would decide against such risky venture anyway.
Aussies, however, are cool.

Today is my best friend Jojo's birthday, and a bit I'm sad I can't be there to make her a delicious Tjinuski-cake with 28 candles in it, but so it goes.
Happy birthday, darling. Miss you.

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Photos

Humour
So many good names on boutiques and restaurants here. Holy Sheet, now that's a good one, as are Thai Tanic and Thai Me Up.