I Don’t Know About Me, ‘Cause Now I’m 23
Posted on January 28, 2018
It was a pretty uneventful birthday. Boss lady and the kids had already left for holidays, so it was just me, Boss man, and the new kid. They called me from Brisbane, made me put a candle in a muffin, and tried to make sure I had the best day possible. Boss man had brought me chocolate from town a few days before, and even his lovely sister sent some treats over with the post man. The Wi-Fi was holding up pretty well, so with everyone back home sending me messages, it turned out to be an averagely nice day. Boss lady and the kids sent all these lovely messages saying we’ll celebrate when they come back (two in one, as I’ll be leaving soon), and everyone in Sydney/Belgium said we could have a proper party as well – so joke’s on you, you still gotta buy me presents.
I could use this post to reflect on the past year, and outline the things I want to accomplish now I’m 23 – which is so close to 25, which isn’t far from 30, which is like so old, help me, am I dying? – but honestly, that’s so boring and who gives a flying fuck, really. Anyone who knows me, knows that I hate making plans – it’s not a great trait for someone who wants to go traveling through Australia, but whatever – and I honestly never know where I’ll be next week. Six months ago, I didn’t know I was going to live with a sociopath for a stunning 13 days before leaving that shithole behind, and moving in with my loving Australian family. Three months and one week ago, I didn’t know that one week later, I’d be working in the snake-infested middle of nowhere. The only future-related thing I generally always know, is what I’ll be having for my next meal, because I’d be thinking about that shit eating my previous meal. I can give you this, though: I’m about one week away from flying back to the city, where I’ll probably just lay on the beach for a few days, taking all the naps, eating all the ice cream.
Before that blissful moment arrives, though, I have another few days to survive here, just me and the new kid. I say survive, and I mean survive. I got up this morning, got a fucking grip and gave myself that ‘good vibes only’ speech – you attract the energy you emit or some shit like that – and told myself I would stop worrying about snakes, just keep my eyes open, and I’d be alright. About one hour later, the new kid walks into the kitchen, saying there was a big brown snake just outside of the gate in the grass – you know, the gate I always walk through, and the patch of grass I’m always picking up shit from – and that he’d killed it. Well, he said he’d stepped on it, it almost bit him, and then he killed it. We think it’s the one I saw two days ago, so that’s something, I guess. I’m honestly not sure whether I should throw a party because New Kid’s obviously got it covered, or crawl into bed for the remaining week, because stepping on a fucking I-will-kill-you-in-about-twenty-minutes-snake is now also an option in broad daylight.
So, yeah, 23 has been an eventful few days so far. Every stick I see in the grass, is giving me an anxiety attack, and I’m honestly hoping it won’t rain for another few days so that the fam’s coming back real soon, and the snakes can stay where they are without roaming around to find shelter. It’s pretty obvious there’s not much I know right now, but I do know this: take me out of this 42° C oven, because I am so fucking done.