The Two Seasons

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


The Two Seasons

Yes, there are two seasons out here; too fucking hot and too fucking cold and the women are ugly and frigid, or married to philandering arseholes. It’s their choice, I suppose. One day they may inherit the house or the farm after he drinks and fucks himself into oblivion with seventeen-year-old schoolgirls, or drug-fucked sluts who’ll fuck any man for weed. Not that I am judgemental. Well, maybe a bit, but that is who I am. The judgemental poet of Coolamon.

I am currently listening to the Four Seasons by Vivaldi just to make myself feel superior to the local peasants who know next to nothing about anything. Thank goodness I live too far away for them to attack me anymore. They still seem to enjoy lying about me, but what does one do? I can’t afford to sue the entire town for defamation, unfortunately. Maybe I’ll win the lottery one day and can embark upon extensive litigation and destroy this miserable, one-horse town forever, but I should probably hold higher aspirations than that. Afterall, I am morally superior to these ill-educated brain-dead pricks who taunt and persecute me.

My good friend Tess Tickle is constantly advising me to move on and escape the constraints of my miserable existence, but I am loath to leave and move back to the big city. It wouldn’t suit me. Would I find love and happiness in Fitzroy with middle-aged tertiary-educated women or die alone without my cats? I’m not moving my cats to Fitzroy, home of the Lion’s football team, nor to Geelong, the home of the Cats. I guess I’ll just continue smoking and drinking myself to death until the silence overwhelms me. My cats will survive. They are hunters and there are plenty of mice out there for them to feed on at the moment, and besides, they are both so cute that any normal aesthetically aware human being will fall in love with them immediately just like I did.


Submitted: January 14, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Craig Davison. All rights reserved.

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Comments

Jobe Rubens

The Big Smoke is not where I would want to be in these times - too many factors compounding the problem. Stay with your cats, Craig. It sounds like you have a lot of space where you are - fields, countryside surrounding you - writers need that. You have the sun, can pour a bottle, smoke, fuck a tart, fall out with one of the dunderhead locals - this is your version of a spaghetti western!!! Sounds good to me.

Thu, January 14th, 2021 7:30am

Author
Reply

Yes, it is a spaghetti western out here, with a soundtrack by Ennio Maracone. The good, the bad and the fucked in the head.
It was 100 degrees today, or 36 Celcius as we call it. We have the metric system down here. It's a bit French, but what the hell.
Yes, there is plenty of space out here. 2 Hectares, or 5 acres, of Australian bush with a view to die for from my writer's desk. I'm a very lucky man.
I love her (Tess Tickle) but I'm not moving to Melbourne. I'll stay here with my cats and write more stories about my eccentric, lonely life.
Thanks for your perceptive comment.
Cheers,
Craig.

Thu, January 14th, 2021 1:38am

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