February has come around again with the same inevitable impact a boomerang has on a blindfolded man. And Febfast clings to the month like a rat on a coconut tree floating towards a pristine, unspoiled island ecosystem.
So the dreaded month has arrived and I’ve had a fairly average record of surviving it in the past. I’ve tried tinfoil helmets, binge drinking beforehand and western religion without much luck, but perhaps that’s all about to change.
I met a man the other day, going by the name of Lance. Actually, he was kind of long and pointy on the end, like a real lance. Funny how names can do that sometimes, mind you there’s got to be plenty of people who are grateful they don’t look like their names. Take all those girls named after flowers. Daphne, Daisy, Iris, Rose. Lovely names, but they’d get sick of being called Petalhead pretty darn quick. Prickly little things to hug too, I’d imagine. But it could be worse. I reckon Fanny would drop off the popular names list like a rocket.
Have, you, ever noticed, that, sometimes, you can, be ambushed, by a hunting pack, of, commas?
Anyway, I was talking to this Lance fellow about surviving February and he told me I should find my inner self, with a bit of help along the way. He said that it was all part of the cycle of life, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t make the ride a bit easier with some herbal supplements. He rattled of a string of words that ended in oid and one.
I told him I wanted my body to remain pure and he reckoned he had something for that too. He said this stuff would make me so pure I could drink my own urine.
You know that moment in a conversation where you realise you’re trapped with someone who might just be a whole loaf of bread short of a picnic and that everybody else in the room already knew that and is standing a long way away from you and won’t make eye contact?
As luck would have it a pack of cyclists rode past at that moment and as Lance was shaking his fist at them I did a runner.
Maybe he was living in La La CuckooLand but something in his words struck home. Perhaps I could find my inner self. But where to turn to? A journey to Nepal seems a bit of a hike. Maybe a little closer to home? One of the smaller coastal communities where people always seemed chilled out and know the benefits of eastern medicines, or at least Asian herbs.
I feel good about this. Smith’s Lake, or maybe even Nimbin, here I come.
So the dreaded month has arrived and I’ve had a fairly average record of surviving it in the past. I’ve tried tinfoil helmets, binge drinking beforehand and western religion without much luck, but perhaps that’s all about to change.
I met a man the other day, going by the name of Lance. Actually, he was kind of long and pointy on the end, like a real lance. Funny how names can do that sometimes, mind you there’s got to be plenty of people who are grateful they don’t look like their names. Take all those girls named after flowers. Daphne, Daisy, Iris, Rose. Lovely names, but they’d get sick of being called Petalhead pretty darn quick. Prickly little things to hug too, I’d imagine. But it could be worse. I reckon Fanny would drop off the popular names list like a rocket.
Have, you, ever noticed, that, sometimes, you can, be ambushed, by a hunting pack, of, commas?
Anyway, I was talking to this Lance fellow about surviving February and he told me I should find my inner self, with a bit of help along the way. He said that it was all part of the cycle of life, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t make the ride a bit easier with some herbal supplements. He rattled of a string of words that ended in oid and one.
I told him I wanted my body to remain pure and he reckoned he had something for that too. He said this stuff would make me so pure I could drink my own urine.
You know that moment in a conversation where you realise you’re trapped with someone who might just be a whole loaf of bread short of a picnic and that everybody else in the room already knew that and is standing a long way away from you and won’t make eye contact?
As luck would have it a pack of cyclists rode past at that moment and as Lance was shaking his fist at them I did a runner.
Maybe he was living in La La CuckooLand but something in his words struck home. Perhaps I could find my inner self. But where to turn to? A journey to Nepal seems a bit of a hike. Maybe a little closer to home? One of the smaller coastal communities where people always seemed chilled out and know the benefits of eastern medicines, or at least Asian herbs.
I feel good about this. Smith’s Lake, or maybe even Nimbin, here I come.
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