I just had a novel encounter with a drunken Irish girl who I met on a southbound 112 tram. She reminded me a bit of my second favourite ex (she of the revolting menstrual sex) (amongst other, less totally horrendous things). She’d lost her friends somewhere between Burke & Collins Streets and insisted on buying me drinks once we arrived in the Kilda, where she is staying in a hostel.
She was really nice, and pretty, and funny, and alarmingly flirtatious. And that is the end of the story. It could potentially have been a much more interesting story, but as part of my ongoing bid to rejoin the human race I felt like I should try and behave ethically. She was falling-over drunk and lonely and far from home and nine years younger than me, and stuff.
I didn’t actually *feel* any kind of moral compulsion.. just a desire to do what a normal, non-possibly-sociopathic person would do.
Am I wrong?
I have been feeling all romanticky lately lately for some reason, which was heightened this evening by having been to see Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy (incredible mess, btw.. not absolutely the worst conceivable Hitchhiker’s movie – it had qualities – but they screwed it up pretty comprehensively); the chick who played Trillian (who was also the Cameron Crowe analogue’s sister who runs away to become an air hostess in Almost Famous.. here she is.. her name – I shit you not – is Zooey Deschanel. She also played ‘Gas Station Girl’ in a movie called It’s Better To Be Wanted For Murder Than Not To Be Wanted At All, which I have just added to my must-see list for the title alone) was a babe of stupendous proportions (although that was no excuse for the whole romantic subplot.. what the hell were they thinking? Then they had the audacity to dedicate it to Douglas Adams. He must be turning in his grave. Cunts. But I digress…), and I just can’t figure out at all if I did the right thing or not.
I half wonder if God – who, of course, I do not actually believe in – is sighing exasperatedly down at me even as I type. “Honestly, young man.. I do my best, you know.. I really do..”
It seemed especially providential since I shouldn’t actually have been on that tram at all. I left my bag behind in the cinema and only realised once I was half way home. I had to go back and retrieve it, then get a third tram south again.
It sounds like the sort of story people tell their children. The kind that’s meant to be sweet and charming, but actually probably just frightens the crap out of them, confronting them as it does with the horrifyingly arbitrary, random nature of existence. “If I hadn’t left my bag behind that night.. YOU WOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN BORN” etc.
It’s been a night of stuffups all round. Irish girl (she was so lovely.. sigh) misplaced her friends, I misplaced my bag, and my sister and her fiancee Martin the Swede got hopelessly caught in traffic and missed the movie. And they both left their mobiles behind, so I had no idea what had happened to them. I had visions of having to call Mum in Geneva to find out their rego number, and calling the police to see if they’d been in an accident, and them both being dead.
To be perhaps inadvisably honest, the prospect seemed quite exciting. And it would have been a fantastic excuse to blow off work tomorrow.
Ah, who am I kidding? I’m not human. I’ll never be human.
Next time, ethics can get fucked. So to speak.