Alan Rickman's Metatron.

Okay. Let me be as blunt as I can be.

I don't want to leave Sydney. This place is pretty fucking awesome. However, the circumstances and a chronic misalignment of the stars have already sealed my fate of only becoming an occasional tourist.

Which is rather sad, because the food is good, the people are intermittently cordial, it perpetually feels like there's a beach that's never too far away and I can get away with wearing a fedora without being singled out in public. I also speak the language with an accent that I'd be burned with back home.

Applying for permanent resident status in Australia is a whore short of a harem (then again, where is it not?), and you're prone to strike out ala being turned away from Heaven's gates because you had a shoddy, sweaty, sloppy illegitimate shag with the Physical Ed. teacher when you were fifteen.

But it has been a rollicking two months, I'll give you that. From the beautifully flawed compact urban banality of Melbourne to the Sophie Monk-ness of the diorama that is Sydney, it's time to pack up and leave.

I'm not too willing to cross deeper into that threshold towards adulthood, though.

I'm not entirely in a rush towards sorting out what's next, since everyone else has beaten me to it.




You fools.