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Why I Don't Blog About My Life

Every now and then, I get told how different I am in person to how I come across on this blog. It's a strange thing, really, to hear people tell you (or in this case me). Partly because this blog is me, and while it is just a public me, it is by no means a fake me. I'm just a private person for the most part and I'm perfectly happy keeping my neurotic tendencies and shit to myself. I figure none of you much care, and I don't have any real urge to confess to you all my deep dark secrets, like the fact that I find Starsailor's Silence is Easy album kind of addictive. It's so melodic, I just can't help myself. I know it's nothing but Brit Pop and that I shouldn't like, but god, ever since I heard the 'Four to the Floor' I just can't stop, so please, please help me--

See, I don't need to do that. I can keep that to myself. The result is that I am seen differently here, and differently in life, and that's fine, because in life I still don't talk about that Starsailor album. I voice the same opinions, I keep the same ideas, so I don't know why the blog is so different, or why it has been called intimidating, or why it led one person to suggest I'd be great as a cut-throat businessman, or any of the other things that have been said, but it is how it is. I made the decision long ago not to talk about my life and I figure I'm going to keep doing that in as much as I always have, because, as the story will show you below, I am stupid. The truth is, I am much, much too stupid to continue living. If I posted here daily about the things I did, or experienced, or the situations I found myself, a bunch of you would organise yourselves into a group, wait for me to appear somewhere, and then me. Afterward, you would all receive medals.

Today was Sunday. I work on Sunday's. I teach English and Creative Writing to children and teenagers who don't want to be there. There is a car park behind the tutoring place I work, and this is where I park my car, and it is dim and dank as a car park can be. I park in the Reserved spots because no one operates it on a Sunday so it is free. When I pull in, I see a couple I work with sitting in their car, eating McDonald's. B. and J. are on a diet. It is not, you might be thinking, a very successful one. J. believes that fast food is laced with addictive drugs like tobacco was, because, as he says as we're walking up to the back entrance, "You never have those cravings for your mother's cooking at two am."

He was buying kebabs at two am. It's a good diet.

So, we get in, classes happen. Try not to think about it. It's best if you don't.

Then, I walk out, work finished, down to my car. Same spot. Same car. I open the door. I put the key in the ignition. Radio, lights, no engine. The battery light is quite bright. Is the battery light meant to come on if your battery doesn't work? I don't know shit about cars so I assume (and still assume) that it does, otherwise why have a light. So I try again. Same response. Fuck, I think. "Fuck," I say. I try again. "Fuck."

Out of the car. Back into work. The bosses look at me. I say, "Battery is dead. Phone." Male boss starts talking about wet and dry batteries. I look at him as if he's speaking Cantonese, which he does, and then I grab the phone, ready to call the NRMA. For those overseas, the NRMA is a roadside service. I pull out the little card and I see, written on the card, my old number plate. My mind is blank. I grab a pen, walk back down, get the number plate of my car, the street I'm in, walk back up, spend about twenty minutes on hold, waiting.

While I'm waiting, a girl in year five I teach, M., comes up to me and starts telling me that her Mum won't be there till two thirty to pick her up. She's bitching. Learn to complain early. That's how life goes. I sympathise with her, because all I want to do is go home. I tell her my car is dead. She laughs at me knowing that, at the very least, someone is coming for her. I might die here in the cold loney suburb of Fairfield.

Finally, someone at the NRMA answers.

During the phone call, I manage to mangle my number plate number, drop the phone, and lose the connection. Luckily, she's still on the line when I get it hooked up. With a rather annoyed air, she tells me that, if I'm lucky, "Roadside Service will be there within sixty minutes. I can't find the street you want, so you could stand on the corner, please."

Yeah. Great. Thanks.

Outside work, I pull up a corner. I feel like a hooker. The battery on my mobile is on one bar, but I message people to pass the time, anyway. I want sympathy but get told by S. that the corner of streets are good places to pick up. She's not single, you know. Thoughts cross my mind. Another S. gives me sympathy. She is single. I think only cruel and cold hearted people date. I have no evidence to back this up. It's hot on that street corner. Cigarette butts litter the ground. I figure I don't need evidence for my theory. My fellow workers drive pass and wave. I can't help but note that they aren't single either. Often, they wave as couples.

The NRMA arrive before I can reach a full theory, thankfully. I've been waiting about twenty five minutes.

Up to my car we go. Open the hood. I told about the battery light. He asks if I left the lights on. I'm not that stupid, I say. He pulls out the measuring thing and informs me that battery is good. Nothing wrong with the battery, mate, why don't you try it again.

Key, ignition... nothing.

Roadside guy looks round my car. Peers in. Taps on the passenger window. I unlock the door.

"Are you in reverse?"

I look down.



The guy laughs.

"Fuck me."

He laughs some more. "It's cool, mate. Don't worry 'bout it."

"No, man, seriously." I put the car into park, turn the key. It starts. "I'm much too stupid to live."

"I'd help you out, but they frown on that killing bit nowadays."



And so, seeming to enjoy himself, the roadside service guy gets in his truck and drives away. I sigh, close the door, and drive home, where I will later go to a printer and hand over a file containing my doctorate. Try not to think about it. I find it's best not to do this. Which is why, of course, I don't write about my life here. Why I don't talk about myself. Because if I did, you would all be forced to realise that this--this is me--

--And I do not deserve to live. Thank you.


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Mar. 5th, 2006 11:21 am (UTC)
ha ha darl -- this post cracked me up. See, you do deserve to live because you made me laugh.

Mar. 5th, 2006 01:43 pm (UTC)
my suffering, it has purpose :P
Mar. 5th, 2006 12:16 pm (UTC)
Oh, please. I do dumb shit like that all the time, and I'm not stupid. "Absent-minded genius", dear Benjy. Learn it, love it, be it.
Mar. 5th, 2006 01:42 pm (UTC)
maybe i can just go for absent minded...
Mar. 5th, 2006 02:41 pm (UTC)
You know, I guessed what the problemwas early on -- but only because I did it myself. I also locked my keys in my car, while the car was running. Sometimes one experiences a disconnect from reality; it's probably reality's fault.
Mar. 6th, 2006 03:05 am (UTC)
i fully believe in reality's fault.

i've never locked my keys int he car, but i have an unreasonable paranoia that one day will. that i'll put the keys down and forget, or even leave them in the ignition.
Mar. 5th, 2006 03:15 pm (UTC)
Heh. Well , I had just finished reading this and was feeling quietly amused about it and about the possibility that you could be called Benjy when I realised that I was, in fact, in the middle of washing the dishes, and had, in fact, left the sink with the tap on force and that that had been some time ago and... oh fuck.

I raced down and managed to get there just as the water reached the level with the sink. But it's not the first time I've forgotten the tap and on one occasion I have flooded the bench, and the cupboards, and the floor...

But now the water's too hot so I'm back up here on the internet. In no way have I been punished for my actions and I will not learn from my mistake.

(There are others things I do all the time too, but I'm not going to list them.)

Mar. 6th, 2006 03:08 am (UTC)
only steff may call me benjy.

this is a rule. it has been written. you must obey it.

Mar. 6th, 2006 10:24 am (UTC)
Hah. You can't control what goes on in my head :-P
Mar. 6th, 2006 10:27 am (UTC)
that's it. i'm telling everyone about your porn collection.
Mar. 6th, 2006 11:47 am (UTC)

You sure you really want to do that, Benjy???
Mar. 6th, 2006 09:48 pm (UTC)
people must know about the suffering animals.
Mar. 5th, 2006 07:41 pm (UTC)
The first time I ever got the nerve to take my motorcycle out by myself (a long, long time ago) I went to meeting across Sydney in a spot I'd been to a zillion times. Needless to say, I got lost. Things look very different when you're navigating yourself vs just aimlessly looking around. I stopped at a car yard in Lakemba somewhere & asked the guy where the heck I was. He offered to sell me a 'nice little car'. I nearly hit him.

To compound that error - when I left the meeting, my bike wouldn't start. It was a kick start, and I kicked, and kicked, and kicked. Wouldn't start. Some of the guys tried for me - same result. Took me (us? I can spread the blame) a good 20 minutes to realise I had the engine switch turned to 'off' (the key was in the ignition and in the right place, but there's a kill switch as well).

And then, going home? I got pulled up for running a red light. Which I did, though thankfully it was just at a small pedestrian crossing. I had noticed the police car behind me, which immediately caught all my attention, and by the time I looked forward again the light was yellow going red. I knew he would pull me over, and he did (I had an L plate on my bike, there wasn't any way he wasn't pulling me over) & he asked what had happened & I just told him the truth. He smiled nicely & told me to concentrate on what I was doing & sent me on my merry way.

Do you know, that happened probably 20 years ago and until now I hadn't put all of those events together. I mean, I obviously knew they all happened, but I didn't think about how bad they'd look all strung together. Um, thanks for that!

Oh, and Starsailor is mindbogglingly bland. Go listen to something else.

Mar. 6th, 2006 03:10 am (UTC)
Oh, and Starsailor is mindbogglingly bland. Go listen to something else.

i know, i know. i can't help myself. it just slides into the background so easily. i think it's blandness is what works for it. it's like the music you want when you just don't want to pay too much attention.
Mar. 6th, 2006 08:10 am (UTC)
ooooh deep dark secrets. Don't know about anyone else, but that's what I'm here for! :D
Mar. 6th, 2006 10:28 am (UTC)
i think you may be disappointed since they mostly concern that starsailor album ;)
(Deleted comment)
Mar. 6th, 2006 10:28 am (UTC)
that's so not true and you know it :P
(Deleted comment)
Mar. 6th, 2006 09:49 pm (UTC)
Mar. 6th, 2006 09:36 pm (UTC)
In reverse huh? Are you talking metaphorically?

And yeah, you're right, you don't deserve to live. But no one here seems to agree with me, so...what's a guy to do?


ps- just locked my keys in the car last night. Fuck.
Mar. 6th, 2006 09:50 pm (UTC)
no, i am not talking metaphorically. but i am glad someone recognises my right to die.

keys in the car, huh?
Mar. 7th, 2006 09:40 am (UTC)
Hey, I'm a defender of civil liberties.

Yeah, keys in the car - but then I used a coat hanger and opened the door with it and didn't even have to call RACV or NRMA or anyone. Ha! Finally a victory.

Mar. 7th, 2006 12:32 am (UTC)
bahahaha! I'm not laughing at you Ben, I'm laughing WITH you. Er, you are laughing, aren't you? :-D
Mar. 7th, 2006 12:35 am (UTC)
no. this is my suicide note ;)
Mar. 9th, 2006 12:12 pm (UTC)
I don't know how different you are in RL compared to blog, but you certainly LOOK different than I imagined.

I confess, in my mind, you looked...more...nerdy. You know, Hugh Grant haircut, pair of glasses, nose ring. The usual.


Mar. 9th, 2006 12:20 pm (UTC)
Re: Different
i couldn't even get hugh grant hair if i tried. but a lot of people think i look different--one of those skinny, serious, hardcore guys who smoke a lot, that's the other choice.
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