Poor Stevie

Last night was the first real Sydney drama I’ve had. There have been heaps of mini-dramas like, ‘what bus do I catch?’ ‘where do I get my haircut?’ and worst of all ‘how do they get away with selling ‘vintage’ clothes for that much!?’

But last night a real drama unfolded. I went to see poor Jules and Beebs after their real-life drama, came back into the city, bought some cough medicine and jumped on the first bus I saw. Even as I was hopping on, I thought to myself, ‘I am a real pro at this whole bus thing. I rule. And my hair smells nice’. But the bus kept going. And going. And going. I let out an audible whimper that made a man hold his umbrella a bit tighter. I decided the best thing to do was to get off at the first stop.

So I did.

Then I thought, I’d retrack the bus route back to where I recognise it, and if it took too long I’d swallow my tightass pride and catch a taxi. It was taking too long, but I was walking along a freeway so I couldn’t identify any cars, let alone hail one down. It was pouring with rain, and I walked through several ankle-deep puddles. I had absolutely no idea where I was, it was dark, my mobile phone is on the blink, and I was wearing a white top that is sheer when it’s dry. So I was pretty much naked on top of being scared to death.

The worst part was walking past a huge area of thick bushland thinking about all the horrible things that could happen to me behind a bush.

I walked for about an hour until finally I saw a road sign I recognised. I got home, had a hot shower and promptly threw myself into bed.

In time for Big Brother though… how unethical is he being this year?

Just as the prophets from Blink 182 told us, it’s all the small things that matter. Like roses by the stairs ‘n’ shit. Since learning that my pay doesn’t go too far, I take pleasure in cooking cakes to take for morning tea.

Fresh out the oven (and from scratch)

And so close you can lick it

I think I want to open up a cute little bakery like Maggie Gyllenhaal in Stranger Than Fiction. Save the world with cupcakes.

Enjoy!

It’s been a wonderful Sydney sunday morning, the sun is shining, our sheets are crisp and dry and I had breakfast at bills in Surry Hills with Julia and my aunt Jenny. There have been three small blips on the Sunday radar however.

Dear Ben Mendelson,

Congratulations on having such a successful acting career. I love you in Love My Gay, and your cameo appearances in fast food ads. Generally, however, the polite response to being told you have to wait for a table is, ‘sure, my name is [ben] and I would like a table for three – me, my male friend with a ridiculous headband, and my small squeaky voiced lady friend over here.’ Rather than, ‘I can’t believe I have to queue outside a fucking restaurant for breakfast!’. Ben, Ben, Ben they obviously didn’t recognise you from your amazing few episodes in The Secret Life of Us. I did, but I still wouldn’t have made you breakfast after such a foul display of ego.

Best, Steve.

Dear shop-keeper lady at Grandma Takes a Trip,

Congratulations, you caught onto the whole vintage clothing thing early, and have made a name for yourself. I can op shop too, so don’t look at me as if I am a piece of dog shit that you brought in on your shoe.

Sincerely, Steve.

Dearest driver on the intersection of Ernest and whatever street,

Congratulations, your engine revs so hard it makes me think you have a big penis. Yes, the pedestrian light was red, but it had been green when I was about a quarter of the way across the road. You don’t need to beep at me, and your girlfriend doesn’t have to yell ‘red light’ out to me. I just ate an arseload (literally) of dairy that my body is ready to reject at any moment. It does not discriminate against leather upholstery, a nice paint job or your face.

Yours Faithfully,
Steve.

Otherwise, just a regular Sunday in Sydney.