Goon

Pt 1: Slow Motion Filter

Sometimes I am obstructed from my self-imposed plans by the people around me. Recently, it took the form of Sandra saying she would make fajitas.

I went with her to “Woolworths,” (I shop at Woolworths, with my own paper – flavor!). I bought one bell pepper, and it cost $6. I didn’t realize that’s what $16 a kilogram meant, but bell peppers are called “capsicums” in Australia, which totally makes it worth it.

The trip to the grocery store turned into going on Sandra’s errands for four hours, and listening to her stories of so-and-so calling her a slut when in fact she is not a slut, and in that way she is rather like Ann Bohlin.

It was a slow motion filter on personal efficiency, but I happily bought a little Peace Lily, a piece of poster board, and some incense to get the nast out of my carpet-cleaner-room. In the end the fajitas were delicious.

Pt 2: Goon

I had made hot chocolate and was heading into the cold to check internet when my flatmates invited me to play doubles at “Water Pong.” It was a good three games, and ended up being followed by a party at 57, catty-corner to our apartment.

“Punch” was being ladled out of a bucket by the host of 57, an international relations masters candidate from South Africa who was aggressive in his benevolence. I kept fighting my way to the ipod and turning down the volume, then ended up djing.

I chatted with some nice Aussies who call the village: “Little America,” and mentioned that I’d like to find an apartment in the city and get more integrated into Aussie culture. They said Aussie culture is saying: “Cunt” a lot and paying twice as much for hard liquor.

 I’ve been hearing a lot about: “Goon” and its turns out to be the Aussie word for “Cardboard Wine.” The big thing in the village is to walk around with a plastic jug that’s half orange juice and half goon. After a while the crowd thinned out and people were wondering where the host had gone. I found him at my house, selling drugs to my flatmates.

I closed my door and was brushing my teeth, and Mr. 57 took that as an invitation. “That’s pure flirtation” he informed my flatmates then he looked in my closet and put on my jacket. Naturally I would end up being good village-friends with Mr. 57.

A (German?) fellow had also ended up in our flat and was informing Jake that the girl he was with liked him. He impressed us with his knowledge of geography, talked close to the faces of others, and asked the same questions repeatedly. He told me that while he was downstairs making Facebook friends with Matt, that Matt said he loved me and never wanted me to leave.

 

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