Last night I was a Wolf Man

Usually it’s a very bad idea to tell anyone about your dreams. No story is as good if it didn’t happen, that’s why your funniest friends aren’t the ones with the best imaginations or quickest wit, they’re the ones who do the dumbest shit, for real, in real life. They’re the ones who make cheese sauce by melting a block of cheese and adding cream, or they do number 2’s in the 18th hole of the mini-putt, or they put firecrackers up their bums ( I didn’t actually like him much but it was funny ). So telling someone about a dream is about the worst story you can tell, and you can tell this by the look on their faces while you’re telling them. Anyway, last night I dreamt I had had hair growing on my face. Not just in the normal beardy places like the jowls and chin, but right underneath my eyes, and on the bridge of my nose, and bridging my eyebrows. So you must be thinking “So what? So you looked like Teen Wolf, he’s cool. Also I don’t give a shit because this was a dream.” But I didn’t look like Teen Wolf, I looked like me with a monobrow and hair on top of my nose and hairy eye bags, because there wasn’t hair on my forehead, and the beard didn’t connect to the under-eye hair, they were separate crops. I looked totally fucked, and I was really worried, but in the resigned way we all worry when we look in the mirror and realise we are getting old and no longer look harmless and fun. I just accepted that my hairy nose and monobrow and furry eye bags were inevitable and there was nothing I could do. So what does it mean? 

My auntie is an hobophobic.

I’m livin’ in a new city city and it ain’t easy. I got no job, no house, no clean undies, no nothin’.

I walk around the city all day trying to find places I can sit down and relax and look arty while I pen troubled thoughts and crisp observations in my $30 Moleskine. Sometimes it’s a cafe, sometimes it’s a mall, sometimes it’s a McDonalds with free wifi (it’s mostly this one). But of all the places I like to wang out, I never thought it would be the Library that would be my undoing. Libraries are like churches, taking in the needy and protecting us from the big bad world outside. Students flock to them to escape the pressures of uni bars and table tennis in the dormitory foyer, foreigners seek asylum from the woes of a strange tongue, and almost anyone can go in there chill out on the bean bags in the children’s section. This was my plan, and it had worked for me in the past. Today however, it was raining, and one thing I know about rain is that it makes you wet. And one thing about being wet is that you look about 50-60% more homeless than you did when you were dry. So I walked in to the Library, wet and bedraggled and desperately seeking the solace of dry air and a bean bag, I slopped in past the security dudes and sat down and before I’d turned the first page of my book there was a tall security man over my shoulder, telling me I had to declare my bag. I looked around at the 15 other dry people with laptop bags and satchels and briefcases and most importantly umbrellas and said ” Really? ” . He said ” Yes, you’ll need to come to the desk. “. I followed him to the desk and the man at the desk started to lose his shit at me and wanted me to empty my bag and roll it up for some reason, and I kept saying ” But it’s got all my stuff in it ” so he retorted ” Well you have to get a locker ” and I patted my pockets and said ” Dude I aint got no cash ” and then victory flashed in his eyes and he said to me ” YES, WE GET A LOT OF PEOPLE WITH NO MONEY COMING IN HERE, AND YOU HAVE TO STAY OUT THERE “. He pointed to the verandah where a bunch of good looking but blatantly foreign tourists were sitting, engrossed in their pay-by-minute internet. I was humiliated. Did I look that bad? Cast out with the Germans and the Spaniards and the “Do you know veer ve can stey et ze operah houzes??” It was heavy. I couldn’t enjoy the city for the whole rest of the day, I felt unwanted, trash, I felt ugly. I felt like… a foreigner. I longed for some cleaner pants and a shirt whose buttons didn’t come undone, and a shaved face, and less hair, and to smell good. So I went to David Jones. By complete coincidence they were having some sort of christmas party so I partook of the free champagne and felt a whole lot better. 

Oh and I asked my Auntie and Uncle if I could stay with them until my job starts up and they sent me this. Do you think it’s gnarly? 

I DO WERK