I'll never be broke in Sydney again

Waiting is, let's face it, boring. We want good things now, immediately. However, the wait, being patient, makes it all so much sweeter - I now understand it. I feel like when I started this blog, hectic weekends were a rarity - nights out just weren't common, dinners out with people pretty much non-existent. All the fun, 'lesiurey' stuff, just didn't really happen - I thought there would be more pessimism in my takes on Sydney life. Thank god that wasn't the case. Back for another blog, and I wanted to start by saying thank you for coming back and reading again - somehow, you don't mind me talking shit about the most random things, connecting Café's to the Sopranos 'way of life,' or ranting about flatmates - not that I have to worry about that now! This week, it's fair to say, has been awesome. Perhaps, should I have had an accountant, there would be someone with a red face, shaking fists and an aggressively delivered spreadsheet - this week...

Do you ever sit there and think: it was all worth it? A struggle, a set of circumstances, anything - seeing it come to an end, relieved. All it took was a rainy balcony for me to recognise just how lucky I am... You may know I live in Sydney at the moment because you're a recurring reader, or because, well, it's in the bloody name. What maybe you didn't know - as you can imagine, it's not something I shouted about - I lived in a share house with at least twelve other people. TWELVE. Shared kitchen, bathroom, the like.  "Hey, it's a bed to sleep in, and it's cheap," very true, wise words. Moving there back in December was absolutely the right call at the time; now in a new place, living with friends, it all hit me just how much I need people to relate to - a living space for more than just, well, living. The old place felt like a house, not a home. Then again, with the state of Sydney real estate, can anywhere feel like home for a twenty year old? Just ...

Maybe you read that headline and thought, fuck me, he's moaning again? Nope. There's been more change on this trip, as we approach the last month, and it's for the better. Already snuck in the 'F Word,' can you believe it? Kids these days... Anyway. Welcome back! I hope this week brought you some fun, new lessons and Coffee as good as the ones I've had - because, if so, you must have had a great week.  Currently I'm sat on a straw-based sofa, draped in old cloth with my laptop in hand, a Litre of Cocobella (Coconut water) next to me, and about 30 ants desperately trying to bite the shit out of me. All of this, no, not in my Sydney sharehouse, but in Byron Bay - I'm back! So much has happened this week; long road-trips, a big banana, how Rats made me decide to move house, re-discovering my love for lunch sandwiches, a new book, and more... Oh, and by the way, probably the *BEST* concert I've ever been too.  Where do I even begin?! The Byron Bay trip -...

In life, I feel like most of us demand independence. Fresh out of school, maybe after time spent living with family, any situation - we want to go solo. I'm learning about the joys & hardship of being 'solo', all the time... Where the fuck did a week go? Surely the earliest swear I've had in any of my blogs; don't use AI, search it up for yourself...lol. Solo, not only a great song by Frank Ocean, but a great feeling. A hard feeling. Honestly a crushing feeling. Also, one of the most liberating feelings ever. Liberating yet isolating? Oxymoronic, surely? Time is flying by, and when I see that I refer to something like a SR-71 Blackbird, rather than your standard passenger jet. For non-aviation fans, basically, the SR-71 was an avionic beast. Speed, unimaginable surveillance abilities at the time, just iconic. A passenger jet, yeah it's cool, but kinda slow. Life is the SR-71 - both incredible & somewhat unimaginable to my past self, but going at ridiculo...

Nah, it's not Chicago - rather the Cosmopolitan delight that is Sydney. It came up in conversation recently, how much windier than Sydney can Chicago actually be? It's crazy... That time again. This time, no beer in hand, and certainly no smell of a Chicken & Turkey pasta simmering on one of the four tiny stoves, in our strangely-lit kitchen. Now? I write equipped with the brain of a hungover bartender, who last night discovered the affects of RSA - Responsible Service of Alcohol for my foreign friends - and how it is applied. Fireball shots, cans of Coors - fucking Coors, seriously Jamie? Some Lemon & Lime vodka cans, a game of buffalo, various bad photos, and...Menthol Cigarettes? That's how you know it's time to cut me off, and send me home. Don't worry how much I bitch and moan, call the uber, send your PayID and get me outta there. If all else fails, Delta Force - so I've heard - operate a pretty good extraction, let them know where the boat is sail...