Torment

I am going to vomit my own sick until I puke if I ever – EVER - hear one more Aboriginal person scream. I am completely fucking jack of it. If I said that to any of my friends in Melbourne they’d probably choke to death on their own indignation. “What?!? You can’t say THAT! It’s racist! Besides, under what circumstances would you ever vomit someone else’s sick?!” Well, walk on over and take a big old bite, because I’m standing by it. I’m at my wits end. I not blaming Aboriginals. It’s just that the incessant screaming, yelling and crying in this community that happens to come from Aboriginal people.

Sometimes it’s just the irritating wailing of children in the office or the screeching discipline of a helpless parent. During the day it is questions and instructions barked at one another across the way – nobody bothers crossing a street to entertain conversation. Why would you? Having a screamed conversation in public is the low-tech equivalent of laying your social-life bare on a MySpace message board.

But the torture doesn’t alight with the fall of the night. The black of evening is lashed with a cacophony of catcalls and wolfwhistles. The distressed wailing of jilted lovers. The vicious threats of violent and angry drunks. All topped off with an unabating undercurrent of hateful, territorial dogs bickering and barking. The yelps of the losers ringing out into the ether like bitter bells. The sickening symphony is an exercise in pure torment. It eats away at you from the inside. It is a form of psychological warfare. It’s enough to make you sick with helplessness. And I am. Pity is pointless… but what else do I have to offer?