Meet Australia, the traitor who turns you in

Heathen Scripture

Write that you’re ashamed of your country and the same bullshit argument descends like a dead snapper. Within three minutes Internet time, someone who doesn’t share your disenchantment will say “Why don’t you just fuck off to North Korea then?”

This is either a subtle recruitment strategy by agents of the Kim dynasty, or a series of Aussies woofing at the wrong foliage. Disappointment in your own country doesn’t mean you hate it and want it boxed up. It means you care enough that you want it to be better. Patriotism that denies all fault can dine out on a juicy choad.

There’s a story you know from thrillers and bad dreams. You have a heart-pounding escape from an evildoer. You reach safety, find an ally. Relief floods in, you have sanctuary. Then… the ally betrays you to whoever you were fleeing. Or you dodge the monster, bolt the doors…

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An Open Letter To My Dying Mother

I am a career hoarder. Anyone who knows me will tell you that. I have files on my work desk from ten years ago. A former housemate and I collected empty beer bottles to signify the countries whose beers we had tried (I kept them after he moved out). I own t-shirts from the 1980s and Phantom comics from the 1970s. I went to a comedy gig all about hoarding, came out of it afterwards with a 12″ single of The Church’s Under The Milky Way which I still own (thanks Corrine Grant!). I even have the ticket stub still, in my collection of comedy gig ticket stubs; which are not to be confused with my music concert/sporting event/movie ticket stub collections… or my beer coasters. I am a career hoarder.

It’s safe to say then that I have trouble letting go of things. This in itself is both a blessing and a curse, and truth be told is deserving of its own post. The reason I bring it up here is borne out of news that I received around six weeks ago from my family back in Western Australia. I’ll spare you the details; it can however be summarised in these four words:

My mother is dying.

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