Stuff White People Like, Welcome Takeaways, Wellington.
Gratuitous Photo of Yourself (not) Wednesday Summer in Wellington Lasted Roughly Six Hours Edition
I finally have the internet at my new place. It only took three weeks and for the company to physically put a line into the building. And a faulty modem getting sent to us. But here we are.
What’d I miss, tumblr?
Welcome Takeaways, Wellington.
Home of the best late night eats in the capital. Because sometimes you just need chow mein or fish & chips or a cheese burger (or all three) at 4 am on a Monday morning.
Photo via
Why anybody puts up with my shit, I’ll never know.
Wellington, 2008.
It had been raining all week, and the capital seemed more downtrodden than usual. Howling winds began to sound like mournful groans. Perfect conditions to indulge in fantasies of life as a down on his luck film noir protagonist, soaked in equal parts rainwater and whiskey. It was a role that let me use it all, the surroundings, the weather, my alienation and inarticulable sense of being ill at ease, and fold it all into a coherent, viable narrative.
It reached its peak when, after falling rapturously for a friend of a friend which had promising beginnings, her interest apparently wained and things rapidly began to cool off. She started to screen my calls and ignore my texts, plans were quietly postponed at the last moment, sex turned into a joyless late night exercise that occurred whenever she was sufficiently drunk. And then, the inevitable: She left me for someone else. Who? Just someone else.
But, even prior to all of that happening, it was a dark period of my life. Despite it all I didn’t know how to begin to talk about it with my nearest and dearest (a small group who I love very much, who for whatever reason, put up with me). I suppose I just didn’t want to bother them. The closet I came were those nights I sat in my lounge, pretending to watch television when really I was transfixed by the bedroom light of a dear friend, visible just a couple of blocks away. I found something incredibly comforting about the having solid evidence that he was just over there, and awake. When I finally reached my breaking point months later, he was the first person I told. Sitting on his rooftop, exasperated and troubled, ex claimed “You realise I was thirty seconds away the entire time, right?” It was only then that I realised the ridiculousness of the whole exercise. We talked about things some more, and I notice he was scraping and picking at the skin around his fingernails, the way I do when I’m distressed. I promised that next time, I’d come running. We said our good byes and I went home to pack, and ready myself for the flight back to my parents’ place.
Months earlier, after the break up that left me so devastated, I was able to confide in one of my flatmates. We got hammered on cheap booze and strode out into the night, filled with bravado. For me it didn’t last very long. I excused myself, explaining that I needed some air. Leaving the club, I began walking through the downpour. Past the best little Chinese restaurant in the world. Past the grand old theatre and the monstrously ugly museum, and out away from the lights of the city until darkness enveloped me and I found myself walking along a road between a sheer cliff and the sea.
The whole trek was hazy. I can recall alternating between a purposeful stride and a defeated amble. I remember taking shelter in a phone box, smoking a cigarette and feeling as though it was the last bastion of civilisation. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t stand staring at the murky black depths and contemplate throwing myself to the waves. With the way everything had been going, I was indifferent to my fate. But on I walked, until I found myself at a familiar intersection.
It marked the beginning of a suburb that I knew relatively well. I had gotten to know it wandering its streets on bright autumn Sunday mornings the previous year, strolling beside a girl who loved me very much, accompanying her on her way to Sunday morning netball games. I would later break her heart for no good goddamn reason. The irony wasn’t lost on me, and as I wondered what sense of bizarre inertia had brought me to this familiar place, I doubled over and threw up.
In the cab back to the city, the driver didn’t say a word. I mumbled ‘Keep the change’ as I thrust a wad of small notes into his hand, hoping that’d cover him for however long he had to spend drying off the backseat which was now soaked through like I was. I lined up at the all night fish & chips place, made my order, and then felt entirely too restless to wait for it.
Nobody seemed to notice that I was completely drenched, especially not the doorman at the back alley bar where I had been ending most of my nights. He looked at my ID and grunted, letting me in despite my smelling appallingly of wet pants. I sat at the bar and the bartender (whose name I knew, but didn’t use) nodded curtly at me each time I ordered a whiskey, which I’d do by pointing at my glass and saying ‘Same way’ because I had heard a TV detective say it and thought it sounded cool. I sat there until closing, and staggered home as the skies began to lighten. When I got home I realised it was nearly time to go to class. I turned on the television, drew my blinds, and went to sleep.
This is for stains, who requested that I post a larger version of my profile picture. I took it very late in the evening on St Patrick’s Day 2009, after goodness knows how many drinks.
Cuba Street, 1883.
Look at these fucking hipsters, standing around waiting for Fidel’s to open.
