(diaryland) September 19, 2001 - 9:39 a.m.

Roland had his birthday party on Saturday night. It was good. It was strange, though, as it was closer to my birthday than it was to his. There were lots of people. Luke turned up stoned off his nut and spent the party sleeping on the couch and watching Danger Mouse on the telly. He�d disappeared in the morning but he�d folded up the doona and pillow we had given him very neatly. It was weird. Rosie got flustered because Tristan was there. They were both silly and cute. Bronwyn, our local friendly neighbourhood hipster, claimed to have made out with the singer of the Strokes when they were out and about here. You know, the thing is, it�s probably true. HOW THE FUCK DOES SHE DO THAT SHIT? She has all these stories you absolutely can�t believe, but at the same time, they�re too real-sounding to invent, and they all start or end with, �Of course, I was very, very drunk.� They�re often set in Greece or Germany. They mostly contain something where she did very well at whatever she was trying to do, even though she was too drunk to do it. There�s usually a famous person in the midst of it all. Sometimes, I think, �Is Bronwyn God?�

She asked whether she could play my guitar, so she did, but it sounded kinda not the best. She said, �I think this is out of tune.� So I checked it. But it was so in tune it wasn�t funny. I thought, �Phew. Bronwyn is obviously not God.�

I was also too drunk at the party to do anything, so I didn�t. I stood and sat around wrapped up in my doona, smiling into it. About the only thing I actually ended up doing was insult Diane.

I was complaining about that Nostradamus rumour e-mail thing where he apparently predicted the WTC thing. I was being all knowledgeable and pointing out that the e-mail said he wrote this thing in 1654 except he died in 1566 or something etc.

And then Diane said, �Yeah � how come Nostradamus wrote everything all cryptically anyway? If he actually knew what was going to happen, why didn�t he just write it down in plain English?�

I yelled, �Because he was French, dumbass!� And then I cackled. I think. Not sure. I do know for sure at that time I thought I was the wittiest and most knowledgeable person on the planet. I was on fire, man. I think at that stage, I was still wielding my Cuban cigar so I felt like the shit, baby. I felt like a Middle-Class. Brat. Socialist. Cuban. Self-Involved. Drunk. Glasses-Wearing. Arse-Monkey.

I think Diane was slightly upset. But, fuck it.

Sometimes, I get worried I�m not actually a fun person to be around, though. Most of my social strategy is to insult others and show them up by putting into service the useless crap I discovered in the past week and pretending I�d known it for years. Also, I�m way too much of an uptight dickwad. Yay!