cake

you do a course and while assessing the best kind of work for you, you're told that an incident that occurred when you were 8 - has left you forever feeling like you'll never be enough. so you take on work and uni, a novel and the most destructive relationship possible - to help you sleep at night.

and they're right about some of it.

wrong - because you still can't sleep at night. you're far too stressed for that. you start having blood noses in the shower. you stop doing your hair.

and then it's the 10th of june and the bar is double-booked.

two 21st's.
1. a boy who works in the local surf shop
2. a girl who is having barbie party... because she can

you and t laugh predicting the "events". the skirts that are too short, the eyes that leer for far too long. you sigh and over-staff. you hire security. you make a stiff drink. your nose bleeds. the birthday girl arrives first in a stretch of pink lycra and the bar-boys opt to work the front bar. you happily accept the back bar when mr. birthday arrives with all his friends.

amongst barbie hookers and surfers, you move bottles of champagne, unpolished wine glasses and libidos. you keep the door between parties closed as often as you can. but the scent of lust is too strong. soon there is pounding on the glass. there are liaisons outside. the security guard is smiling - earning every dollar. you call a quick "bar talk" while the speeches are going.

not much to be said. the bottle of moet is passed around, as are a few chilled becks. e brings a tray of function food out the back; you laugh and scoff it down. at $400 a platter - it's not too bad. before you re-open the bar, you put the moet, beer and pinwheels on account.

you continue with the party, you dance and mouth lyrics. you cut more people off than you should - simply because you can. you start to envisage the clean up and quickly push the thoughts from your head. eventually you turn the lights up too high. you start collecting glasses you should have cleaned up hours ago. you keep eating the cold food. drinking the cold beer.

you call a swarm of taxis and tell the dj's its over. you kick them all out. you tell the mother of barbie that all the cake was cut and served. you bill both parties and laugh because the total is ridiculous. you lock the doors quite rudely, assemble the staff and sit down for a much needed cigarette. you uncover the un-cut and un-served birthday cake and laugh. it is better than last weeks.

when you're drunk enough, you start to clean up. you break the "floating dancefloor" while trying to pull it apart but you don't care. you smoke more cigarettes. you run the dishes through on a cold rinse so you don't have to wait for them to cool down. your boyfriend picks you up on his way home and you're too tired to talk. tucked under his arm, you sleep well that night.

you wake up the next day and decide to work on your novel.