After eight years I finally returned to my home. It always seemed a lot bigger, amazingly enormous but I guess I was amazingly short, so it all makes sense in the end.
I found all this stuff that we hurriedly packed up before we left, stuff I thought was of much value and was greatly needed for my return home. Now I look at it and its honestly a bunch of crap. There used to be this place called the Plaster Fun House, the title makes me laugh now, plaster and fun in the same sentence, but moving on, once we left, my brother and I it shut down. And I can see why, we practically funded the joint. My wardrobe housed about 600 different plaster objects, angry, transvestite looking fairies (my creation) to Fred the Dinosaur (my brothers collection) to mutated, purple horses (my creation). Each item just as badly painted as the next, at the time I thought I was supreme, now it looks like an intoxicated painter has thrown up upon a poorly made plaster kitten hugging a puppy and just for effect added glitter and feathers. It was all a bit upsetting really. Not as upsetting as finding my collection of "IMPORTANT TINGS OF CATLIN". This "secret" box contained a notepad in which I asked myself questions such as "Who are your friends?" (This greatly saddened me) to which I replied Hannah and Courtney. Throughout the "secret" notepad Courtney had drawn and written things. I could not remember who Courtney was, who the heck was Courtney? I asked my mother and still no answer. Then, I came to the memory of having an imaginary squirrel friend (don't mock me, I watched a lot of Farthing woods, or as my brother cleverly created "Farting Woods", I was influenced) called Courtney. Apparently Courtney could draw rabbits, and what seemed better than myself as each page showed a masterpiece signed Courtney and this crappy piece-a-crap next to it signed by: CAtLiN. Courtney owned me and she didn't even exist! (Hannah, I'm not quite sure about this Courtney, who the heck is she? Maybe she is real, maybe she is not, in fact, a squirrel)
The box also contained antenna with hearts on the end, a broken music box with kitschy kittens painted on the top (I remember pulling out the ballet dancer to see if she could dance by herself. She couldn't.), a picture of myself being mauled by Bugs Bunny and a book my father and I created. The book depicted drawings I had created and my fathers story next to it. In one drawing there shows a cat, next to it the caption reads "This is a yellow cat. No one likes the yellow cat because he keeps going around kissing everyone". I'm not quite sure if I or my father came up with this poetic little piece of writing but psychologist would have a field day with that."The patient has problems with intimacy".
The thing was, Adelaide was and is, freezing. Leaving me scrounging around to find things to wear to sleep in when it reached a painful six degrees. Heres what I developed.
I've outdone myself. Thankfully I only slept in this at night (accompanied by a woolen jumper, a sleeping bag, a rug and a quilt). I call it bogan chic yet that would in a sense, be an insult to the many millions of bogans that inhabit Adelaide. Let me explain, there seems to be about four main groups in Adelaide at this stage in time, Bogans, Sikhs, "Men in Suits" and Emos.Let me put it into perspective. I get on the bus, and of course, being Adelaide you don't need a family reunion, you jsut get on a bus, and go sit next to my uncle, because it jsut so happens he was also on the bus. Once on the bus my uncle and I begin to laugh as three Sikh men are loudly grooving to Bollywood music on their phone. This continues for the entire bus ride that at some points, disgruntled old women tutted to the "bbbbRAANNNNGGGGGGGAAAAA" part comes on, that in a movie, would have the Bollywood hero, gut and moustache flying, wooing his love. Then a couple of emo lads stumbled aboard, unable to locate their seats due to their gelled mop hair, they eventually sat down and talked using "like" as an adjective, noun and adverb. Lastly a girl got on the bus, in what was keyed fashionable by the almighty Supre and Dolly, hipsters, singlet and small jacket with faux fur. Her hair was parted with a side fringe and didn't move, never, never ever, her hair defied the laws of gravity. So this "young thing" sits down and this poor lad, who I thought was a "Man in Suit" starts this conversation with her, obviously extremely keen (note, not "Man in Suit"). The girl talks about how she was pissed Friday and asleep in a gutter after she walked for "like, 6 billion miles", pissed Saturday and tried to drive her car but fell asleep on the steering wheel and pissed Sunday because usually she can't but Monday was a public holiday, ah! So the logic does exist to it, its not just "get pissed". Eventually after explaining her "whirl wind" weekend the guy asks about her course, if not a little to eager to keep the conversation going. "Oh, I'm doing a prac at the hospital tomorrow". She was training to be a nurse. I'm glad my life is in such good hands, that of which stated "so hes all, I'm gonna make out with Tracey cause your a slag, and I'm all like alright, I'm a slag".
I then exited the bus and was painfully stood up but never the less, I'm over it, right after I hunt that person down and hurt them in excruciatingly painful ways, like that of Johnny, the Homicidal Maniac. Then I'll be fine. Instead, I located my way around Adelaide (after sitting for ages with a hobo. I kid you not, a fricking hobo, bloody hell) , which I usually fail to do, unable to locate even the Malls Balls, the obvious mirrored balls that used to attract children now attract drug traders and religious girls with constant creepy smiles on their faces, staring right at you, in some ways scarier than the drug traders who were clean cut, smooth students with nice hair. I found the best record shop in Adelaide, Big Star, thankfully this time I restrained myself and did not pick up every single free catalogue they have lying on the floor. This comes as a result from my last experience where I picked up all catalogues including "Feast". Unknown to me, simply acting upon the pretty heart shape on the cover, I picked it up, not knowing that it was a magazine specifically created for gays or lesbians. Walking up to the counter, where an interesting looking man served me I got the slow smile as I placed my catalogues on the counter to pay. After having it prominently displayed in my bag for the entire day, getting on the bus home I flipped through to wonder why constant transvestites and rainbows were featured, lastly the "gay pride" gave me my answer. I quickly stuffed the suspicious article to the back of my bag, checked around and instead read "Rip it Up". I felt wronged, my need for free stuff had let me down, never had this happened before.
Recently in an English exam we had to write about memories as a child. My memories all stem from my home and its odd that I'm coming back to a place I lived as a child as a young women. In the exam I wrote "I believed him, (about fairies coming at night, the basis of my story) due to the understanding that all good things came at night, Father Christmas, The Tooth Fairy and chocolate delivered by over sized bunnies", and thats how I thought. For example things I greatly valued, plastic heart antenna, now mean nothing to me, I am going back a completely different person. Its a tad scary. Anyway, heres some old memories. Ugh, we're so old.
HILLS MONTERSSORI SCHOOL REUNION!
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