Perth – Day 4

Day 4 in Perth. Room smells of white rum and bile. Returned to the hostel last night to find my beautiful French room-mate’s beautiful French girlfriend throwing up on the dorm floor. I didn’t realise how lonely I was until he made me hold her hair while he found a bucket and I started to tear up.
Beautiful people can make me do anything. She’s so gorgeous, she could have baby-birded me in that moment and I would have wiped my chin and thanked her for the experience. He’s objectively even more attractive. The kind of Frenchman that gave Napoleon a complex in the first place. Such truly sublime humans, I almost offered to bleach the floor for them.

Perth – Day 3

Day 3 in Perth. Struggling to maintain calm at the most irritating backpacker hostel in the southern hemisphere. Judging by the amount of Red Foo blasting through the corridors, I’m seemingly the only one staying here with a pair of headphones and a sense of decorum. Even while writing this I’m grinding my teeth in frustration as a man who looks like 5 dads mashed together sits behind my laptop, staring at me while he open-mouth slops up a plate of cold spaghetti.
This pasta slurping golem in particular has earned my ire because every room I’ve entered he’s already occupying, adjusting a pair of football socks that always matches his singlet. It’s like being haunted by some omnipresent, carbo-loading football dad. Even this morning when I returned from a show at 2am he was sitting in the lounge room pulling on a pair of sky blue tube socks to match his powder blue wife beater. At this point I’m not even sure he’s real. I haven’t slept more than 2 hours without a Red Foo interruption and by now I’m more than willing to believe I’m in some kind of budget Overlook Hotel where this restless spirit is doomed to wander the hallways, grunting and pulling up his hosiery every 5 metres until the sun rises and he morphs back into the mould on the walls.