2003-10-28 - 10:15 p.m.
#129: No Need for The Land Down Under
Note to self: I be back. Admittedly still on dial up, but that's better than scrounging for internet time at netcafes. And I get to type on my own computer as well. Strangely enough though, as soon as I realise that I don't have to be in a rush to type any of this up, I immediately lost any presence of mind to actually start up another entry. Goes to show what happens when you're not under any pressure to perform: I blame my recent acquirement of a Gamecube for this, as well. And with the (entirely essential!) purchases of Legend of Zelda: Wind Waker and Super Smash Bros. Melee, I find that the amount of time I have outside of mashing buttons while staring slack jawed at a TV screen is.... minimal, at best. In fact, the only reason I'm on my computer right now is because it has an internet connection. Without it, this bucket of wires and silicon seems strangely lifeless and boring, even with it's own set of games. This is obviously a sign that I need a better computer.
I can't believe it's been three weeks since I've left Auckland. It feels.... like a completely different length of time. I'm not sure whether to say if it should be longer or shorter: just some unit that's "respectable". It should sound grander than a mere "3 weeks" I guess, if that sort of thing is at all possible given the breadth of the English language. I feel really, really dead. I have been spending a lot of time "not thinking" while engrossed in my Gamecube, so I don't really feel up to absorbing or comprehending a lot of current events happening around me. It doesn't feel like it's worth bothering with, though that's probably the dead side doing the talking. A lot of things happened before I got the Gamecube, though; and a lot of things persisted in happening even after I got the Gamecube, despite my best efforts at shutting it out with my epidemic of console gaming-addiction. I've written quite a number of pages in my little hardcopy journal so I guess I should do a little bit of "digital translation" of them. Keep in mind though, picking through the details I feel a lot of it has become irrelevant through my heavy apathy. You might feel the same. Or you might not. I dunno, I don't care.
I begin with the plane trip made by my mother and I, across the Tasman from Auckland to Sydney. Airplanes, the marvel of modern technology and engineering. As we all know, they are one of the safest and most vigorously tested modes of transportation ever devised by the minds of man. It has to be. It's several hundreds of tonnes of steel propelled into the air and across the sky, skirting the fine edge between the upward thrust of the wing mounted engines, and the continuous downward pull of earths gravity. It combines the incongruity of a huge, belligerent mass with highly sensitive and delicate controls and electronics running through the entire craft. It is without a doubt one beautifully designed, hopelessly complicated machine of both high convenience and dependant necessity.
I have never felt less safe on a plane than I did on Royal Tongan Airlines flight WR-202.
My first impressions upon boarding the craft was not good. The interior was seedy. It was very, very seedy. It looked like the seating equipment had been bought from some "commercially used airplane interiors" shop that had been half priced on already reduced and discontinued stock. The seats were threadbare and coming apart at the seams and floorbolts and inlain with so much grime and sweat and body oils from previous passengers that it was impossible to sit in without winding up sprawled on the floor. Thank god for the seatbelt, and the fact that the rows were spaced so closely together that one was held in place by wedging ones knee and upper thigh in between the seat in front and the back. Moving like a crab has never been such a prerequisite skill until I boarded Royal Tongan Airlines flight WR-202. There were other things, too: stained walls and carpeting, a stowaway table that refused to stow away, cabin crew uniforms that looked stitched together from a bargain bin basement sale and a profound lack of anything resembling air conditioning. The lack of air conditioning presenting it's own unique set of problems midway over the Tasman Ocean when we were blazed by the full blast of the setting sun.
These are the sorts of conditions I'd expect in a cinema, not in an airplane running an international flight. I even feared to look outside the portholes lest I saw the wings were being held together by duct tape. Fortunately for all involved (but most especially me), they weren't and they were actually there; though there did seem to be an unusually large number of creases and dents on them. I hope they were simply minor dents and blemishes, and would continue to be only that for future passengers on Royal Tongan Airlines flight WR-202. May God have mercy on their souls. The turbines themselves, however, were made by Rolls Royce. That seemed to be a good sign. I know this fact to be so because the Rolls Royce symbol was prominently displayed on them. What made me worried afterward was the fact that they had labelled it so prominently; it made me wonder about where everything else came from on the plane, since they weren't so prominently displayed. If I were to pull up the carpeting, would I have found the label on the corroded metal underneath, "Made in the Royal Republican City of Jubjub - Population: 2"? Actually, now that I think about it, I'm not altogether certain that the wings WEREN'T lashed together with duct tape. I couldn't see the full wingspan from my window, afterall.
To add to the uncomfortable flight was an uncomfortable social situation. Out of the ENTIRE passenger list, my mother and I were the only Asians. Maybe that's not a completely accurate statement, but looking back and forth from where we were sitting, a mjority of the passengers were either Pacific Islander or Maori people. That was.... an odd and strange situation to be in. It was rather like catching the wrong schoolbus and being in the same small, confined space with students in another uniform. Or turning up to a party and being the only person not wearing a costume (or even worse, being the ONLY person wearing a costume). Sure, you'd probably be just as safe there as you would be anywhere else (well.... relatively. depends upon the rivalry of the schools in the first example, and the politeness of the guests in the second) but you'd still feel a damn sight better getting out of that kind of situation double quick fast. This situation was made doubly awkward by the inflight announcements being made first in a Maori dialect, followed by a long pause, then an "uh....", then the English translation of said announcement as an afterthought. We were most definitely on the wrong flight, my mother and I. We needed to be on a flight where white people were in the majority. Good old whitey. You can always trust whitey. They'd never enslave your entire race or give you blankets soaked in filthy diseases of their own invention for trading!
It deteoriates further from here, because some complete idiot in the ticketing department decided that having 6 babies seated within three rows of one another was an inescapably brilliant idea. It takes a most special kind of fool to pull off that sort of blunder, but judging from the high level of incompetence displayed thus far for Royal Tongan Airlines flight WR-202, they must have them by the shipful. A four hour flight with babies in seats all around, can you imagine? At least one of the little blights of humanity was crying at all times; if one stopped, at least one other would take up the screaming and screeching and hacking and howling. At LEAST one. Most of the time I was hearing crying babies in stereo; and due to the air conditioning not working halfway through the flight and the causing the cabin temperature to rocket, I was treated to the unequalled opportunity of hearing babies scream in 5.1 surround sound. A most distinguishedly unique experience, if not one I'd care to repeat ever again.
And then when we finally did land (the noise of the engines and my blocked up ears mercifully drowning out the baby sextet as we descended), we were treated to one of the longest runway taxi times I've ever had to suffer through. 20 minutes of going from the runway to the airport (bumping around, I might add. It's a long strip of tarmac designed to be perfectly flat, what the heck is it bumping on?) and by the time we emerged from the international terminal: bedraggled, haggard and harassed, we were 45 minutes late and had to run all the way to the connecting flight at the domestic terminal. The perfect afterservice to cap the worst flight I've ever been on. I simply have to congratulate everyone in charge of the Royal Tongan Airlines flight WR-202 experience. They've developed the perfect experience package to drive customers away from ever using their services after the first time. No matter how cheap their flight plans may be, in this particular companies disclaimer: cheap meant nasty.
Fortunately, the domestic flight from Sydney was one without incident, and we arrived in Adelaide in the late evening of Thursday, 9th October. We stayed at an overnight airport motel, then finally moved into our semi-temporary apartment in the city, where we have lived in since. Because we're going to have to live here for the next couple of months or more, we've been trying to convert the two floor apartment into a more comfortable living space, including taking boxes out of storage (from our shipping container) with all our essentials. And when I say "essentials", what I really mean are my CDs and DVDs, and various media players, including a DVD player and TV as well as my computer (on which I am typing this entry right now). So right now, things are looking almost perfectly normal. Like I've always lived here. I have my computer, I have internet access, I have a bank account (with money in it. wahey!) and I have a room I can shut myself in for hours at a time, entertaining myself with the various doohickeys I've managed to stuff in. Sure, I haven't got a car, but the city is close by and accessible and I haven't really the curiosity to explore further abroad. Sure, I haven't got a job, but I've still got money from my savings, so I can live off the fat for a while yet. Sure, I haven't got friends or a life, but that's what happens when you've just come back to a city where you haven't kept in contact with anyone for 7 years and you've just been in for about 3 weeks and avoid people....
.... Okay, I guess I really can't think of a good enough excuse for that last one. Nor that good an excuse for the first two. But the point IS: Things are starting to make a lot more sense now. They're becoming, hrm, equilibriated? I guess you could say. It's kinda strange to think how quickly all this has happened. One day I'm in Auckland and that's perfectly normal. And now I'm in Adelaide and that's.... still requiring tweaks and adjustments to my body and behaviour but still fully capable of being completely normal with time. I mean, I've lived here before and have visited a number of times; but it's one thing to come into this country as a tourist, and another thing entirely to come to this country again and live here. I have to adjust the way I walk, the way I dress, the way I talk and even the way I think if I want to fit in. Even social rebels would have to acclimatise themselves in this manner, unless they simply want to be social shut-ins. And after the events of the last month, I don't think I want to be too much of a shut-in. Having friends is good, so is being a social animal. Yeah, I want friends. Friends are good. And in a pinch, they can be a source of great dietary fibre.
I have to admit though, my first impressions of Adelaide and her inhabitants aren't overly favourable in the first couple of days I was here. And those first impressions are: Adelaide people are a bunch of cheap, money mongering two-bit whores with distinct attitude problems, coupled with dishonest behaviour and have the deepseated small frontier town fear of advancing technology. And their tapwater tastes funny. I was (and still am, a bit) probably being a little harsh with my assessment due to a couple of small negative moments getting to me, but there's nothing like moving to another city in another country with nothing but complete strangers around you to really sour your mood. I'd go into how I formed the impressions above but that would most likely reveal just how petty I really am. On the otherhand, I just have to make this known: No one should be forced to pay 3 dollars to use an airport trolley. Whoever thought of that particular one must have been a real piece of work. And now the story must, invariably, begin.
Between my mother and I, we had four pieces of check-in luggage, three pieces of carry-on luggage and only two pairs of hands; we were after two long (and one EXTRA long) flights and all we wanted to do was catch a couple of Z's. And the first thing that hit us, upon our arrival in Adelaide, was a 3 dollar charge for a trolley. Is this some sort of campaign created by the South Australian council to keep tourists away? "Hey there! Come to Adelaide! A place so tightfisted that you have to use the trolley to carry your heavy luggage!". Oh, and then! We managed to haul our luggage outside to an area by the curb to wait for our taxi when what should happen? Why, a bunch of other arrivals decided to use the curb right in front of us to board their own transportation by their own families, forcing us to drag our luggage further down to another curb! Of all the insensitive nerve of some people! And-- I'll be stopping with my rant right about here. Every little thing is getting to me in this place. I just want everything to go back to normal and I want it to go back to normal right now. I'm thrown out of my usual groove.
But not everything has been bad this trip. Sorry, move. No, there has also been the anime store I described in the entry I wrote when I was last here. Shintokyo they're called, and it continues to amaze me that a store with such a focus on anime and manga products in a city like this manages to survive. I find it really, really, REALLY difficult to walk into the store without buying something, but have managed to do so.... at least twice. Out of the six or seven times I visited. And every time I visit, my eyes immediately find something new I hadn't noticed before and force me to fixate myself upon it, plastering my face to the glass diaplays and wondering if that sort of behaviour wasn't disturbing people around me. I have a sinking feeling that, the more I go, the more the temptation to buy stuff will overwhelm me. And then I would return to buy more stuff. And then more stuff. And more. Until I can afford no more and am forced to roam the streets, begging for petty cash so I can go into netcafes to post my warning on messageboards to other anime otaku out there to stay away from this magical store of shopping evil. I even have pictures of said store on my brand new digital camera to share with Auckland Anime Club members. And possibly make them drool a bit and feel sorry that they ever felt sorry for me for moving. If this entry is still fresh for the reader, the pictures should still be available at an impromptu photojournal I've set up as a documentation of my settling in Australia. I hope to keep up with that particular project, what with my new digital camera and all. I should probably use it. The digital camera, I mean. Have I mentioned my new digital camera and how cool it is? Teehee.
I want to go to the local anime club and meet other people there so I can indulge in my geek-related interests (my only interests, admittedly) but I'm afraid to go right now. I feel so out of balance and whacked. I'm afraid as coming off as too needy or eager or too weird. While I'd like to think that I have the chameleonic ability to be likeable under any circumstances, it's just that: a thought. I could very well end up as the social outcast of the group, one of those whose presence is barely tolerated in social circles and whose name is spoken of with a sneer and a snigger behind his back. I've known enough people like that to not want to be like that. So what happens if I go to the anime club in Adelaide and it's my unlucky day? My unlucky day to be the pariah dog and be shunned by all around him? I don't think I could take that right now. I'm way too cranky to want to be ignored. I'm way too cranky to make new friends, too. I might be cranky enough to meet old friends from high school though, only I don't have any old friends from high school. They've all gone away and I'm the only one foolish enough to come back. This thought makes me even more cranky. Cranky like an oversized monkey man.
But then again, maybe this lack of distraction is a good thing. Adelaide isn't many things, but one thing it is, is a distractionless city. If one ever needs a real life example of a necropolis after dark, Adelaide is it. The nightlife is nonexistent, the shops close early or don't open at all on weekends (fortunately, that law has been repealed since, oh, last week. lucky, eh?) and the traffic is flows like a sleepy river: like the drivers are having a mild siesta while driving from location to location. I think a lot of this relaxed attitude has to do with the weather, and the mentality that forms from that weather. This isn't "four seasons in one day" Auckland, this is "might as well be walking on the sun" Adelaide (unless it's getting on towards June or July, in which case it's "Vancouver on a really bad day" Adelaide). Spring and autumn are mere concepts here. In this country there are only two seasons: summer and winter. Constant sun or constant rain. This, coupled with a bit of late night wine, got me to thinking about the stock Australian personality algorithim. Maybe the reason why Australians seem so sedentary is because of their weather: a long summer followed by a long winter followed once again by a long summer is the kind of regularity that can lead to a certain relaxed lifestyle. With this lack of variation in tone, time seems to elongate and lose all meaning under the merciless beating of the sun, or the constant pelting of the rain. It's kinda like being trapped permanently in bullettime. Perhaps that's why Aucklandites seem to be on the move all the time by comparison. They're as erratic and fast paced as their weather. Now that's a funny thought. And I just thought of Aucklandites as "they" rather than "we". Hmmm. Next thing you know, I'll be speaking with a horrendously bad Australian accent, and asking if people want another sea crustacean from the outdoor cooking grill.
In any case, I hope this lack of distraction will help me in my chosen course of Bachelor of Media Studies. I've applied for all three universities here with that course (and other similar courses as multiple preferences) in mind, so I'm crossing my fingers over that. I just hope I don't screw up this fresh start that I've been presented. Actually, I just hope to get in period, to be honest. They're taking my GPA from my years as an engineering student in Auckland U, and as regular readers of my journal might know, that's not a good thing. Why they have to take the GPA from my university years is something that escapes me. If I could get into university in another country, surely I can get into this one? If they want the marks for allowing me into a tertiary institution, shouldn't they be looking at my grades from high school? Or something along those lines, anyway? Ah, well. Here's hoping I get in and make something of myself, anyway. I'd also have to thank EB at this point for reccomending that I get official academic transcripts from the Auckland U. That probably saved me a lot of time getting my university application in with official documentation in hand, which was just as well: when I arrived in Adelaide I was already two weeks too late for regular University consideration and had to go for the second tier late application (with an extra 66 dollars added to the processing fee. ouch). So that was a lucky break for me and my university application. Even though I had to wander around the city for about an hour looking for the building to submit the form to, that was about the only bad thing that happened while submitting this application. I can't say the same for the applications in other fields I've been trying to submit, however....
This is where another magical tale of a day in my life in Australia begins. This time it involves the kind of complicated bureacratic nonsense that makes Adelaide such an ass place to live in. Yes, I like to call this particular tale: The Quest for the Australian Tax File Number (TFN)! See, I'd taken it upon myself to go into Adelaide city to look for the Australian Tax Office so that I could apply for a little 12 digit number that confirms my status as a tax paying citizen of Australia. Not that I want to pay taxes, but the alternatives are either a big snip out of ones paycheques (ha! that's funny. me getting a paycheque) or, if one manages to evade tax payment altogether, then a long jailterm followed by prison gangrape if one gets caught. So I opted for the sensible option and set off to apply for a TFN. My first stop was to the Australian Tax Office. Or at least, where the Australian Tax Office was before it was moved a month ago, but I was not aware of this fact until I came upon the doorstep of the building and found absolutely nobody inside. Fortunately, there was a small map on one of the glass doors that lead me halfway across town to where the Australian Tax Office was now located. And thus, I went in, got my TFN and ended my journey. And that was my great quest of the day completed!
Or at least, it WOULD have been. See, I went in and applied for a TFN using the online system they had set up at the computer terminals in the building (having been waved to one by a receptionist). All went well for the online system until suddenly! it came to the final submit screen, whereupon I was told that my passport details were incorrect and that I should immediately complain to the Australian Immigration Department since it was absolutely, under no circumstances, the fault of the Australian Tax Office. I got the same error again after trying to resubmit my details twice; so like the naive fool that I was, I decided to blame the Australian Immigration Department, picked up my breeches and hiked my way to their building. Fortunately, it was a building on a street just parallel to the one the tax office was on. Unfortunately, it was a half hour wait in line as there was only one person behind the counter to take enquiries. Brilliant. And eavesdropping on the customer ahead of me didn't give me much reason to hold the bureaucracy of South Australia in high regard: The person in front simply wanted to renew her 400 dollar student visa for another year. Unfortunately, because she was planning to change from studying a diploma of her chosen course this year, to a degree of the same course next year, she'd have to apply for another 400 dollar student visa. 400 dollars in order to be able to be legally in this country to study the rest of this year (one more month? two months at most?) and then another next year because she was planning to study for a degree instead of a diploma? That seemed awfully harsh and unyielding, and it didn't fill me with much confidence over my claim that I was an Australian citizen despite my passports apparent betrayal.
Fortunately, when it came to my turn to be at the reception desk, I had no problems there whatsoever. And that was because I was on the wrong floor for the department. What I wanted was the next floor up, which was the same department, only dealing with a different set of problems. Great. I waited 30 minutes just to be told to go to a different line. So I went up.... And lo and behold! There was no line! The first thing that had gone right for me thus far that day! I went straight to the counter and upon telling them my problem with my passport at the Australian Tax Office, the recpetionist gave me an odd look and told me that the tax office couldn't possibly have given that sort of error because they didn't have access to that sort of information about my passport. But she checked out my passport anyway. And lo! it was fine. It was all in order, my details were on the official database and I existed. I had walked all the way to the Australian Immigration department for nothing, thank you and good night.
So feeling rather flustered at the runaround (and more than a mite bit foolish), I walked all the way back to the tax office, went up to the recpetionist and asked for a paper copy form to fill out, explaining that I didn't "trust those new fangled machine-chicanery". So I got one, filled it right there and then, and when I went back to the receptionist to hand the form in she took one look at the form and went, "Oh, you have an AUSTRALIAN passport! Why didn't you say so?" and immediately gave me another, much thicker form to fill out and threw away the one I'd just finished. I'm surprised my eyeballs didn't burst out of their sockets from the building internal pressures of sheer frustration. And the new form (hopefully the proper one) requires a ridiculous amount of official documentation to prove that I exist and am an Australian citizen. And most of that documentation is stored away in small brown cardboard boxes, of which many are marked "miscellaneous important paper stuff". It was miffworthy. Very miffworthy. All for a simple 12-digit number. I want that 12-digit number, and it benefits both the governemnt and I to have that number but do they want to hand that number to me easy? Nooooooooooooooooo. I really don't want to think what kind of a runaround lies in store for me when I go for my Australian drivers license. I might be driven to drink.
What else is new? Well, I've gotten a Gamecube, as I've mentioned several paragraphs above. My first console in years and it's made by the very same company that made my very first one (the NES). That probably doesn't say very much though, considering the fact that back then: Nintendo and Sega were the only REAL heavyweight champions. 3DO and Atari didn't have a chance with those two giants around. Now Sony and Microsoft are those giants (well, Sony definitely is. The X-Box still doesn't really strike me as an essential purchase for titles the way Sonys are) and Nintendo is the small time player for home-based consoles.... And Sega has turned from console hardware and software developers to software only and on multiple platforms, including their former rivals Nintendo. I never really expected to see the day I'd see a Sonic game on a Nintendo based system. But I digress with my geeky knowledge of the world behind console gaming. I got myself a Gamecube mainly because the package was so endearingly... cheap. Yes, I have to admit that fact first of all: If it weren't so dirt cheap to purchase, I'd have stayed away entirely. But cheap it was, and I got an even better deal than advertised in the papers. See, the advertisements had the Gamecube, a Gamecube bag, 50 dollars worth of voucher savings and two games: all for 200 dollars. That was a sweet price for a console gaming system. But when I first went to the store, which was Toys R. Us if you must know. And I tried my best to look dignified as the only person in there without an accompanying parent or child. My cheeks burn with embarassment. But anyway, when I first went to the store they were completely sold out of the deal. All the games that were supposed to have been given away with the packaged deal had been given away, so they weren't doing any more. This made me sad.
So I walked away from the store, dejected that my only chance at not boredom had disappeared (this was back before I got my computer out and the apartment was still bare of entertainment). Then I walked back the very next day, thinking that I'd buy a Gamecube anyway, even though it was about 200 for just the console itself not including any games. And I was surprised, nay, shocked! They had changed the deal now ever so slightly! Now the deal was for the Gamecube console, 50 dollars worth of voucher savings and games adding up to an equivalent value of the two games that were given away before: all now up for 165 dollars. Add a memory card to the list (an essential purchase. if one wants to save their progress in games, that is) and it came to just about the same price as before, only without the Gamecube bag (which I didn't really mind) and a choice in the game one could have! This was a good deal now magnified to an even better deal than it was before. And with that gaming choice, I chose the one game that I told myself I'd get if I ever was to get a Gamecube (I've made the same sort of promise for the other major consoles.... Oh, for their gaming goodness too....) and that was: Legend of Zelda: Wind Waker. A beautiful game that looked fun to play, and I hadn't played a Zelda game since the one on the original Gameboy. And to make matters even better, when the checkout boy looked at the copy of Wind Waker he was about to put into the bag, he suddenly said, "Tell you what: Why don't I give you the limited edition version with Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time included as an extra game, instead?". I wasn't about to argue, he did so, and I walked out of that store a very, very happy man. I must have used up all my luck for the entire year with that lucky purchase. Which probably explains what happened with my TFN application (whose events occured after my happy purchase).
Since then, I've also added Super Smash Bros. Melee to my list of Gamecube games and I couldn't be happier with them. Admittedly, this was probably (definitely) what lead to my decline in writing in my hardcopy offline diary.... For which there is a gap of events a week wide. Not that I did very much that particular week except lock myself in my room, fixated on Links jiggling buttocks as I carefully navigated him through dungeon after dungeon. I am ashamed. On the otherhand, my familiarity with console gamepads has improved, and I can actually use said gamepads now properly without resorting to (too much) heavy button mashing! On the otherhand, just who the heck am I trying to impress here? I don't have any gamer friends with me here, and there aren't many gamerheads I want to be friends with anyway. Plus, it's a Gamecube. Serious gamers don't play on Gamecube. That's meant to be a kid's console. That sentence right there makes my lip twitch with its irony. The gamers from the 80s and 90s have all grown up and now want to drag their games along with them. Nintendo, with its unwavering staunch support for gaming for kids, is a big backwards step for their campaign to drown everything in a highly uninspired and unoriginal sea of blood and guts. Then again, maybe kids are more sophisticated than we give them credit for, as is clearly evident in this particular article when tweens were subjected to games from the 80s and before. As for me, I find Nintendos handholding of gamers to be most helpful: especially since I seem to suck horribly at using the gamepads of today, after 7 years of not using one. And the games are genuinely fun, which helps a lot. Then again, that's not going to be getting any ladies into my bed any time soon, so what am I doing this for? To get the Triforce of Courage and have Link kick Ganondorfs butt, of course! I am such a sad, sad nerd.
The fight between my mother and father seemed to have simmered down. Seemed to. They sounded friendly enough when talking to each other on the phone, and that was just fine with me. When my fathers flight came in a couple of days ago, the two were chatting away happily about various matters: family gossip and scandals, how was business, how was Malaysia and so forth. Everything was pointing towards a good sign and that things were back to normal. Turns out that "good sign" was simply heavily lacquered denial. Last night, after having a very regular dinner and a very regular wash up, my mother stepped out of the apartment to throw out the garbage and didn't come back. Not for a whole thirty minutes, anyway. During that time I frantically searched (in the most dignified manner possible while one is dressed in "indoor clothes" outdoors) the confines of the apartment block, believing the worst had happened. I needn't have worried, at least not about what I was worrying, since she came back a half an hour later after she disappeared, worked into a full fury and picked up the argument where they had left off three weeks ago. There was full blown screaming and shouting and beating of the walls like before and like before (and the coward that I was), I locked myself away in my room from all that and played on my Gamecube. I don't think I'm capable of dealing with this sort of thing. I've never had to deal with this. Our family has never had this sort of falling out before. In fact, I often wondered if my family was perfectly normal, since it never really had big fights like this. So now that the big fight is here, I guess I can say I feel glad while feeling terrible at the same time. And now, after the fight last night, things are back to normal again. I don't get it, but I'm willing to go with the flow. I just want things to be normal. Normal, normal, normal. That's kind of a stupid word when you think about it, innit?
Well. That's my first diary entry from Adelaide, Australia. More to come, if I can tear myself away from my Gamecube long enough to write them. So for now: Smoke me a kipper! I'll be back for breakfast!
