Amazon RSA 2048 M01

 

“Pump and pump. 

Take photos today, so you can see before and after. 

Let's be optimistic. 

You will lose weight if you let your mind say that you will lose weight. 

If you let your mind say it doesn’t want to lose weight, it won’t.”  

-- Duromine Diaries, Vanya Vetto) 

  

I WALK THE streets. 

Some might call it prowling. 

I heard about the crackheads who roam the streets at night on bicycles and robbing   people. 

Thought it was nonsense. 

Until I looked up from my phone, damn, I can’t find that techno track I was looking for, and in front of me next to his bicycle was a living crackhead. 

Not sure who was scared the most, he or me. 

Fuck, I still couldn’t find Hey Hey Hey (Original Mix) until I started cranking the old Malvern Star. 

Fuck, I was riding a bicycle. 

And fuck these tunes sounded great on Phentermine. 

  

 “I suffered no pain, my hunger had taken the edge off; instead I felt pleasantly empty, untouched by everything around me and happy to be unseen by all. I put my legs up on the bench and leaned back, the best way to feel the true well-being of seclusion. There wasn't a cloud in my mind, nor did I feel any discomfort, and I hadn't a single unfulfilled desire or craving as far as my thought could reach. I lay with open eyes in a state of utter absence from myself and felt deliciously out of it.” 

― Knut Hamsun, Hunger 

 

I WAS TELLING Rosa that I’m no stranger to starving. 

I did it in the 90s in San Francisco and Bangkok and the 2000s and 2010s both in Sydney and Perth and Bangkok again. 

It never gets easy. 

I’m sure I’ve written about this before. 

And I’m sure I’m going to write about it again. 

Everyone goes through their ‘hunger’ period. 

Mine was epic. 

And now I’m paying for pills to lose weight. 

I know, just doesn’t make sense, does it.  

But it’s how it was. 

I had lost my passport. 

My lifeline to Commonwealth Coin had been cut off. 

Basically I was stranded. 

I didn’t see it coming. 

I was just too busy fucking Thai cunt. 

Oh, juicy cunt at that. 

And so accessible. 

I bet you had to pay for every one of those fucks, said my conscience. 

Smart ass.  

But yes, and that’s where all my money went. 

So having a passport and a hard copy of an airline ticket about to expire was stolen, I couldn’t even raise funds to go to the Australian Embassy and Air Italia. 

Very soon I'd be in the cradle of poverty, getting a good feeling how it was like to be on the other side of the tracks in these third world countries I had been visiting from 1994- 95, this time not as a tourist but as a vagabond.  

Let the hunger games begin, I thought, always one to rise to a challenge. 

I had no idea it would take nearly a decade to get enough cash to fly back to Australia.  

Still as far as challenges go, I think I passed this one.  

Now at my age, I’ve quit smoking and stopped wasting money on whores and flights to Asia. 

Whoring and Asia, are the clues. 

I’ve spunked my life savings into these honey pots. 

Now I have money. 

The only problem I have is scoring the Duromine. 

One tablet is never enough after taking it for three months. 

You need two, or three of those babies to get the same buzz you did when you took them at the beginning. 

I roamed the streets. 

Aimlessly, I roamed, looking for a fuck. 

I was just one walking hard on. 

I was skinnier than a ya ba addict from the slums of Klong Toey. 

I even had the body of a Thai person. 

The women fucking loved it. 

I was one of them. 

What they didn’t know was that I was the only farang starving in the kingdom. 

  

“Like Dorian Grey, I wished my portrait would age and I’d stay young.” 

―  Vanya Vetto, Garuda’s Travels: Sins and Redemption. 

 

I’M LOOKING AT myself in the mirror. 

What I’m not seeing is a trim youthful 24-year-old version of myself. 

What I’m really seeing is a 52-year overweight old man. 

He isn’t smiling back at me.  

It’s more a peculiar look. 

A riddle is written on his face. 

     He’s cynical. 

He’s jaded. 

He’s fed up. 

He’s on a mission not to get fucked over. 

Moreover, he’s an angry fuck and he says, ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ And I’m too timid to say I’m looking at an obese fuck. 

And he’s too tired to argue the case that he isn’t. 

Partnership? 

Why not. 

  

“When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.” -- Hunter S Thompson 

  

‘A LOT OF people are using Duromine,’ said Wolf Mask. 

He said he knew someone who lost 20kgs on it after one month. 

He was to be my weight loss coach. 

First few weeks, sound advice and he’d take my calls. 

Same with Cedric, he was to be my editor, he was all friendly and took my calls. 

Then something happened. 

And I think I know what it was. 

Cedric was bragging about how he dumped Kevin Cummings, an American author who is wheelchair bound and taking diet pills. 

 ‘I hitched a good ride on his books. Helped him out too. 

 Cead tells me that CJ Moore blew KC out a few months ago. 

He's rubbed a few up the wrong way. Onwards and upwards.’ 

Sounds like a classic parasite to me. 

Who will want to hitch on anyone’s books if you have your own books to hitch a ride on? 

Revealing, huh? 

I guess I’d be next. 

Was he suggesting that I had outworn my welcome as well? 

 Onwards and upwards, as they say. 

Once Cedric received his payment for editing, he turned on me. 

He forgot I had paid for him to edit. 

Instead he went into criticise mode. 

I’m not saying he’s ungrateful, but it may sound like it. 

He was a psychic vampire that Wolf Mask had warned me about. 

Wolf Mask was too much into himself to bother working on the finer points of psychological warfare. 

He was too busy getting fucked up on high grade marijuana that he was scoring from his doctor. 

The more I lost weight, the more the dark forces joined to overthrow me. 

For fucks sake, I was only losing weight, not trying to be President of the Universe. 

‘Yesterday was fine,’ wrote Cedric, after I sent him his next instalment payment, for the great work he did on spell checking my book. 

‘A real tonic. It eased the basic pressure. Thanks. 

No scope for treats like grabbing a bargirl, but very welcome and well-timed.’ 

He really has editing skills. 

Or so I thought and once I started questioning it, Cedric got on the defence. 

He was not going to return the money I sent him. 

Oh no, not at all. 

I had sowed the idea that the money was all about editing. 

But initially it was about him begging. 

I just couldn’t get that word out of my head, ‘the fucking beggar.’ 

I guess Cedric couldn’t either. 

By the look of his well composed email, you’d think that I was the one who was not paid for his editing work. 

I’m rewriting the book. 

Mark Roger’s was right, as far as note form goes, the book wasn’t bad, but it still wasn’t a book. 

Cedric knew that but he is a lazy cunt and wanted to do the least amount of work for the most pay. 

He won’t be getting any more editing work. 

As to Wolf Mask, he relished ridiculing me on his podcast. 

‘You are a mole for Tim Page.’ 

‘Hate nothing worse than meth stains.’  

He was exhibiting all the qualities of one, right down to the vocabulary, ‘that was dope man!’  

He was losing it. 

Big time. 

His podcast was a tool to right all the wrongs in this world. 

No one was spared. 

In the end, the police shut him down. 

And now he’s crying ‘foul play.’ 

Was this a case of being a victim of your own hype? 

  

 “Some great shitting of blood today. Duromine you blood sucker. We must part ways. You are slowly killing me. But your help has been noted. I took the last 40 mg over 24 hours ago. Withdrawals should be almost over. Evil flatulence. Hitler must have been taking speed. And bad breath. And metallic taste. You served your purpose. Week seven, I need to pull the plug. Timed to perfection. A week earlier. I can deal with a bit of rectum bleeding. But I won’t be lured anymore by your seduction.” -- Duromine Diaries, Vanya Vetto 

  

‘FASCINATING STUFF, PAL. Yes, get off it if you can. Rectal bleeding has to be stopped.’ 

I read these lines and maybe have to consider, perhaps Jodric really does care. 

  

“Vanya, thanks again for helping out when I was in a tight spot. Now you've converted the loan into my editing of The Gropamine Diaries, I won't delay in getting it done. Currently we're at Page 382 and going forward for completion. Ask to look at the edited manuscript any time you like.’ 

― Jodric Plinth, Bangkok Poet. 

  

DID I? 

Well what the fuck!! 

‘My accommodation situation here has been problematical, as for many, but I'm not dishonest about it, and I'm trying to deal with it in an adult way.’ 

I was telling my neighbour, Rosa about the gall of my editor. 

Yeah, $500 of my hard-earned savings, I complained. 

He has a way with words, our poet. 

Well then why the fuck didn’t you sort it out with your own pension? 

Wouldn’t that be the adult thing to do? 

No answers. 

It would mean admitting the con. 

‘And he played upon your vulnerability,’ said Rosa. 

Too right he did. 

‘And he sounded ungrateful too.’ 

It’s all part of the con, I said. 

If he’s not making himself look superior, eventually the facade will strip revealing a guy who has the cock the size of an erect clitoris. 

Rosa loves that one. 

She can be creative too. 

I really have to try hard to keep her entertained. 

She might be an 81-year-old lady from Malaysia, but boy she has high standards. 

If she falls asleep while talking to her, it’s time to go back home and brush up on your story telling. 

     

“We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.”  

― Hunter S Thompson 

  

I’VE HAD MY ups and downs on the first week of using Duromine.   On the first night I wanked for about eight hours.  

Alright, slight exaggeration.  

Maybe it was for twenty minutes and maybe I didn’t even wank.  

Okay, I'll rephrase that, I DID NOT WANK.  AND IF I DID, that soon stopped too.  It’s very hard to keep a hard-on on it. 

You really need help from either Cialis, Viagra, or a whore who does great blow jobs. 

Since taking the pill, three weeks into it, I have watched my diet. 

I only eat salads and vegetables.  

I’ve stopped raiding the fridge late at night.  

I know, sounds ideal. 

 

"How do you know I’m mad?" said Alice. 

"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn’t have come here.” 

― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland  

 

I haven’t weighed myself on a scale for 25 years.  

I didn’t need too.  

My weight was manageable.  

Or so I thought.  

Yet the vanity side of me was scared to death of the scales.  

It's like a smoker who has his morning coughing fit. 

Is that blood I just coughed out? 

A furtive look looks fine by me. 

Being overweight is about being in ignorant bliss. 

It was a case of what you don’t know won’t hurt you.  

But boy did I know. 

How much did I really weigh? 

Surely not over 90 kilograms. 

And a lot of that weight must be muscle mass. 

And we all know muscle weighs more than fat. 

Surely the fat was just from the two litres of milk I had been consuming most nights over the last two months.  

Who doesn't go through their dairy stages? 


I showed restraint by skipping the cheese. 

Some called it bulking up, I personally called it a treat before retiring to bed for the night. 

Milk went so well with cereals. 

A glass of milk over lunch, magic, 

Another litre over dinner, sublime. 

I know, I can hear you saying, but wasn't it a bit excessive. 

Didn't Oscar Wilde say nothing 'exceeds like excess.'  

Didn't he also say he had nothing else to declare but his genius?  

Of course he did.  

I've used both those lines passing through Australian Customs. 

'Oops, that's a high-level security search.' 

Never really helped my cause. 

I suppose that was the point of quoting Oscar Wilde.  

  

It was when total strangers started calling me ‘Big Boy’ and ‘Fat Cunt’ that I thought perhaps I had weight issues. 

But like most of my problems they were easily brushed aside.  

I’m already a big framed Eastern European. 

The last time I weighed in at 114 three weeks ago at the clinic.  

My doctor was reluctant to prescribe me Gropamine when I asked a year ago but eventually caved in after seeing the kilos skyrocket on the scales.  

God bless his Bulgarian soul who was born in Syria. 

I was also suffering from fatigue, listless and lacking motivation. 

Those cum stains on my t-shirt and tracksuit pants aren't really a good look. 

And wearing black only emphasised the 'I don't give a fuck' state of mind I had.  

Gropamine is basically speed.  

It’s marketed under many names, I guess after it gets a bad reputation from junkies just like myself who abuse it.   

It’s also called phentermine and branded with intergalactic spacy names like 'Acxion' and ‘Adipex’ and of course Gropamine which among the legion of bored housewives, is now endearingly referred to after a Rolling Stone’s Song, ‘Mommy’s Little Helper.’  

Don’t be fooled, it’s still the same formula that was used in the 50’s.   

The version I’m taking is slow release.   

Nothing like the handful of pink and whites I took on the streets of Bangkok before a night out in the 'Go- Go Pits'. 

Which is why I open up the plastic capsule and pour out the content in neat lines on the table and snort as much of it as I can, then I mop up the rest with my fingers, licking those crystals into my system.
It beats waiting four hours for it to dissolve in your stomach and enter your blood stream. 

Trust me, it's a sight to behold. 

Haven't put a pill up my ass yet. 

It would be a waste if I had to shit it out. 

I'm taking laxatives too. 

Anything to lose weight and loosen up the bowels, I'll take because science says so.  

Another reason why I break up the capsule is that the plastic it's made from can't be good for me. 

I don’t like eating plastic capsules at the best of times.  

Unless of course they are loaded with high grade speed. 

I also want to see what I'm imbibing. 

It's the curious chemist inside me wanting to explore his meds. 

 Gropamine consists of fine white powder, in smaller amounts, signalling it's the good stuff; while the coarse brown powder is the binder that takes it time binding with blood, making sure the effects of the pill lasts all fucking day long.  

It really takes about four hours to kick in and start suppressing your appetite.  

I've had my ups and downs on the first week of using Gropamine.   

On the first night I wanked for about eight hours.  

Alright, slight exaggeration.  

Maybe it was for twenty minutes and maybe I didn’t even wank.  

Okay, I'll rephrase that, I DID NOT WANK.  

AND IF I DID, that soon stopped too.  

It’s very hard to keep a hard-on on it.  

You really need help from either Cialis, Viagra, or a whore who does great blow jobs.
Since taking the pill, three weeks into it, I watch my diet. I only eat salads and vegetables.  

I’ve stopped raiding the fridge late at night.  

I know, sounds ideal.  

I’ll tell you anything to make me look good.  

  

One of my weaknesses that contributed to my very fleshy love handles was sugar and pasta and ice-cream (SPI’s).   

SPI’s are a lethal combination.  

Fat thrives on it.  

Diabetes feasts on it.  

And I just fucking adore it.  

I was a two packet a day smoker too.  

It did nothing to keep the weight off.  

That’s another myth debunked.   

As I said, everyone was calling me ‘Big Boy’ and 'Fat Cunt.' 

They were just too fucking lazy to remember my name and most likely crack heads who relied on meth to keep their weight down.  

I had been setting up concerts that come to town for the last ten years.  

I started late in life.  

At forty, I was humping road cases.  

At 52, I was still humping road cases until a pandemic scared off all the big acts.  

And I didn’t break my virginity until I was 21.  

A late bloomer?  

I’ve been trying to play catch up ever since  

 So I’ve got muscles too, somewhere hidden in the fat.  

I just wasn’t aware how much fat.   

According to a scan at the gym which I joined a month ago, I’ve got forty percent muscle mass.   

Sounds impressive but when you put the fat percentage next to the muscle mass, you realise just how far you have slipped into middle age spread.  

More fat means more muscle to carry it.  

Sounds bleak, doesn’t it?  

The point I’m making is that there is a science to losing weight.  

No one can do it with will power alone.  

I certainly can’t.  

And why would you bother when you got science to help you out, that’s my outlook on life.  

‘I don’t take drugs,’ I hear often.  

So then why are you popping antibiotic pills like they are candy, is my usual response.  

Because they most likely had a serious case of gonorrhoea.   

That usually shuts them up.  

‘It was chlamydia and mind your own fucking business.’  

There’s always a smartass.  

Some people just can’t be saved.   

  

Dieting is hard work.  

Being on Gropamine is a trip within itself.  

Only the brave and hard-core drug abusers need apply for a course of these special diet pills.  

On Gropamine, I listen to a lot of techno music.  

I listened to it before I was on the diet pills.  

I used to abuse Tramadol.  

I'm talking ten capsules a session. 

I abuse Tramadol. 

That sounds better. 

I'm abusing Gropamine. 

I'm hoping my doctor isn't reading this. 

I still have an untouched bottle of Valium you prescribed; I tell him. 

He has seen it all. 

I guess he likes my approach, just as dishonest as most of the junkies who enter his clinic, but at least believable.  

Tramadol does stuff to you. 

You can drink and fuck all night on it and still not blow your load.
Listening to tunes on this synthetic heroine was seriously a joyous occasion.  

I used to scratch myself and have vivid waking dreams.  

The colours were soothing.  

I think this is what the poets of the 18th century was talking about.  

Byron, Coleridge and De Quincy were big fans of opiates.  

They wrote great pomes and prose on it.  

Nothing like that for me.  

I was just too busy enjoying the euphoria the drug is famous for.  

I’d say methadone is much better.  

It’s just so hard to get.  

The Germans know their drugs.  

It’s no coincidence that the best techno music comes out of Germany.  

The silly things you pick up on a serious weight loss regime.  

It’s great being in Australia.  

I was telling a young lad at the gym, that Australia is the only country where you can score legal speed and get paid to exercise.  

Dole bludgers we are called.  

I’ve written books on this stipend.  

The secret is to find a doctor who can write you a medical report.  

I’ve been writing books for the last two years thanks to my doctor.  

Obviously, he has a literary streak he’d love to explore if he wasn’t too busy being a doctor.  

  

It was if Tramadol tapped into the kaleidoscope in my brain.  

People talk about the ‘third’ eye.  

That’s bull shit.  

Om mani padme hum. 

More bullshit. 

What they meant was that we all have a kaleidoscope in our brains.  

It just needs tapping into with good drugs.  

Meditation is never going to take you there. 

Trust me I have tried.  

All I got was eaten alive by mosquitos and cramped legs. 

Another myth debunked.  

Another reason for losing weight, I want to get the wolf hounds off the trail.  

I’ve got my teeth done.  

I had twenty crowns done in Manila.  

That makes 24 crowns, the total of my teeth.  

But it’s the two canines that are causing me serious problems.  

Currently I’m getting root canals.  

They were only half done, said my dentist.  

Explains the inflamed gums and swelling of the face.  

Abbesses, they are just killers.  

Am I digressing?  

It seems like it.  

I like the idea of going to seed and then doing a bit of gardening and coming good.  

I’m looking at myself in the mirror. 

What I’m not seeing is a youthful 24-year-old looking back at me. 

Instead, I’m seeing a 52-year overweight old man. He isn’t   smiling back at me.  He’s scowling at me. He’s an angry fuck and he says, ‘What the fuck you looking at?’ And I’m too timid to say I’m looking at an obese fuck.  

I have muscle memory.  

I trained in weights, swam and ran, in my early twenties.  

But as soon as I started traveling, I couldn’t be bothered training.  

Fast forward over two decades, and this train wreck has arrived.  

It’s going to take some panel beating, some good drugs and discipline, but I think we'll get there.  

Me, Myself and I are very disciplined that way.  

And if we don't get there, it's been great being fucked up for the past four months on lab grade crack. 

I’m hitting the weights big time.  

I have a gym membership.  

I’m on track to finding the new and better me.  

Right?  

As I said, I’m hitting the weights, getting physiotherapy and getting my teeth done.  

A trifecta you may ask.  

  

I recently got whiplash after being king hit in the workplace.  

Rosa knows all this.  

She is my neighbour.  

I tell her everything.  

She’s a good listener.  

A widow and no spring chicken, Rosa was born in the late 1940’s and refuses to give up the ghost.  

‘What do you mean, ‘give up the ghost,’ says Rosa as a mock form of admonishment.  

I tell Rosa that I’m sure Big Corporations have been lacing my food with Estrogen.  

Before I started the diet, I continued, ‘I was wearing training bras.’   

I pull up my shirt and show her the stain lines.  

‘They aren’t stained lines,’ says Rosa, ‘it’s where the training bra has rubbed on your nipples.’  

Rosa has a kinky side and confirms it with a wink and a smile exposing her hybrid of lower false teeth and jagged and jutting upper yellowish teeth.   

‘Only fucking with you.’  

Rosa suggests I get on with the narrative.  

‘How about you fast forward it nearly four months,’ she says.   

That can easily be done, I say.  

But what about the previous four months, we just can’t skip it, can we?  

‘All will be revealed in the future narrative, which when you think about it, is the present narrative.’   

Rosa is so intuitive, sometimes and she’s full of good old fashion common sense.  

‘Not bad for a girl who never went to school?’  

Not bad at all Rosa.  

  

Rosa says don’t get too skinny.  

‘People will think you are a wimp.’  

I just like the idea of a total make over.  

Losing weight is a big one.  

Getting teeth done, another one.  

Confidence, maybe I have too much of it.  

Surely, I must be bipolar.   

Is there good medication for that shit?  

Once I get those two root canals finished, I might look at the crowns the dentist is offering.  

What if you break a tooth getting a crown off, I asked my dentist?  

He just wouldn’t do something so silly like that.  

He’s almost offended by the question.  

‘Good question,’ he said, and nothing else was explored.  

I suppose if I can cough up the $15 grand, he’ll talk teeth, aesthetics, you fucking name it.   

Until then, I should just continue acting the crack head that I am.  

  

I’M NO STRANGER TO starving. 

I starved in the 90s, the 2000s and for another month in the  2010s. 

It never gets easy. 

I’m sure I’ve written about this before. 

And I’m sure I’m going to write about it again. 

Everyone goes through their ‘hunger’ period. 

Mine was epic. 

And now I’m paying for pills to lose weight. 

I know, just doesn’t make sense, does it.  

But it’s how it was. 

I had lost my passport. 

My lifeline to Commonwealth Coin had been cut off. 

Basically I was stranded. 

I didn’t see it coming. 

I was just too busy fucking Thai cunt. 

Oh, juicy cunt at that. 

And so accessible. 

I bet you had to pay for every one of those fucks, said my conscious. 

Smart ass.  

But yes, and that’s where all my money went. 

So having a passport and a hard copy of an airline ticket about to expire stolen, I couldn’t even raise funds to go to the Australian Embassy and Air Italia. 

Very soon I'd be in the cradle of poverty, getting a good feeling how it was like to be on the other side of the tracks in these third world countries I had been visiting from 1994- 95, this time not as a tourist but as a vagabond.  

Let the hunger games begin, I thought, always one to rise to a challenge. 

I had no idea it would take nearly a decade to get enough cash to fly back to Australia.  

Still as far as challenges go, I think I passed this one.  

Now at my age, I’ve quit smoking and stopped wasting money on whores and flights to Asia. 

Whoring and Asia, are the clues. 

I’ve spunked my life savings into these honey pots. 

Now I have money. 

The only problem I have is scoring the Gropamine. 

Gropamine.  

You fucking dog, Jodric. 

Ruining my narrative with your smugness. 

It’s not Gropamine, it’s Duromine. 

I’m sick of replacing your inadequacies. 

No matter what I do, Gropamine surfaces like the poxs. 

 

One tablet is never enough after taking it for three months. 

You need two, or three of those babies to get the same buzz you did when you took them at the beginning. 

I roamed the streets. 

Aimlessly, I roamed, looking for a fuck. 

I was just one walking hard on. 

I was skinnier than a ya ba addict from the slums of Kong Toey. 

I even had the body of a Thai person. 

The women fucking loved it. 

I was one of them. 

What they didn’t know was that I was the only farang starving in the kingdom. 

I was attacked in the workplace. 

We had a nickname for him.  

Lee Kuan Fucking Yew. 

I put on a few kilograms and put the bite on my doctor. 

‘Gropamine, or bust,’ I said. 

It did sound convincing. 

I had put on a couple of kilos.  

It had nothing to do with Post Distress Disorder. 

The truth was I packed on the pounds from drinking two litres of milk a day.  

God bless dairy products. 

It did the trick. 

I was obese anyway. 

Even I could see that.  

Borderline diabetes, a hernia ready to explode and a bad knee, 

I was a prime candidate for losing weight. 

Being a newcomer to dieting, I only wanted to do it once. 

And get it right. 

I didn’t know anything about Gropamine.  

So the doctor prescribed one script for 30 milligrams. 

I was on my way. 

Dieting here we come.  

A six pack would follow.  

All I have to do is take the pill and watch the pounds peel off. 

I had been walking all year. 

The only time I got down to 107 was when I had diarrhea. 

Now I was 114. 

My weight increase began about the time I started working for Lee Kuan Fucking Yew. 

For two months he ran me into the ground.  

My body responded by putting on weight.  

He made me feel like a useless piece of shit. 

If only he knew he’d be funding my weight loss.  

But I won’t get ahead of myself. 

Every crossroad and by road leads to Lee Kuan Fucking Yew. 

I should really dedicate this book to him. 

Without him king hitting me in the workplace, I’d still be sitting on 112 kilos  

and walking for an hour every evening.  

If I told you I was two digits, sitting on 99 kilos, you wouldn’t believe me.  

I wouldn’t believe it if you told me this three months ago.  

Gropamine isn’t for everybody. 

Losing weight is just plain hard work. 

But if you can’t get it up and even the sight of yourself scares you in the mirror,  

it’s time to take action.  

And that’s just what I did.  

I was working with a Macedonian selling Telco. 

‘The slanty eyed cunt.’  

He just didn’t like Lee Kuan Fucking Yew one bit. 

He was a sales rep. 

Over time I’d won his confidence. 

A real lovely man, in the end I cracked his code  

and when he saw the real me, I couldn’t do wrong in his eyes. 

I’m a wog boy at heart. 

‘Why do you let him stomp all over you?’ 

You’ll see very soon. 

There is a methodology in how I work. 

Give someone enough rope, they’ll eventually hang themselves in ecstasy. 

In the end, I was working as little as possible. 

This job was a sinking ship. 

The sales rep had been cheated two thousand dollars by the chink. 

‘And I’ll get my money’s worth somehow,’ he said,  

and went to the boss’s desk and put the phone down his crutch and rubbed it up deep inside his bum cheeks. 

‘That’s five dollars off the debt,’ he said. 

That day I was laughing uncontrollably. 

Lee Kuan Fucking Yew has been with Commander for fifteen years  

and doesn’t like anyone disrespecting him. 

He knew my laughing outbursts were about him, 

but he couldn’t pinpoint it. 

So, he did only what he could do, get the situation back into  

control by king hitting me in the parking lot. 

‘Get all you can from the creep, get a police report,  

he’s left himself wide open.’  

And I did just that. 

‘I’m not a bad guy,’ said Mr. Telco, who asked me over to his desk, about forty minutes after he king hit me. 

He wanted to show me an apartment which he thought I should buy. 

I was going to work for Lee Kuan Fucking Yew for the rest of my life, he said. 

He had already given me that assurance, after his employee of  

fifteen years lost her house from a fire without insurance.  

He was moving her along before the corpse had retained room temperature.  

She was nearly sixty-five, very matronly and Hungarian born. 

This showed me what Lee Kuan Fucking Yew was capable of. 

Bring it on, I thought, as I began to ham up the situation. 

I nearly got crushed by two stages. 

I was in the middle and they were being pushed on wheels for joining.  

A close call.  

Knocked the wind out of me.  

What the fuck.  

I set up international concerts. 

It was U2’s Joshua Tree concert. 

Lee Kuan Fucking Yew’s push was soft and effete. 

But boy did I ham it up.  

Past injuries, new injuries, fuck and the phycological damage.  

And Hollywood actors think they are only capable of winning Oscars. 

So that’s a bit of background. 

Not long after he pushed me, he must have been feeling bad. 

‘Come over here.’  

He always called me over to his desk for pep talks. 

He did the talking down when I was sitting at my desk. 

‘This apartment could be yours,’ he said. 

Mm, yes it could be. 

‘Well you’ll be working for me for life, so it’s very much in the realms of can do.’  

Mm, I muttered, trying to sound grateful. 

He was the best bullshitter under the sun. 

‘I’m old school,’ he said when I first met him. 

I didn’t even really want the job. 

It’s that he insisted I see him. 

He had no idea where our working relationship would take us. 

I love good sport like the best of them, I thought, a 

as I pretended to show interest in the apartment, he was showing me for sale.  

‘You are kind and merciful,’ I eventually said,  

hamming it up a bit with this tag on, ‘you only meet one Lee Kuan Fucking Yew in a lifetime.’ 

From the look on his face, he couldn’t decide if I was taking the piss out of him or being sincere.  

‘And who is Lee Kuan Fucking Yew anyway?’ he asked.  

I was being sincere.  

I was going to screw him for all he was worth. 

Apparently, he owned seven properties and an office block.  

At least that was something to work with.  

Listen, if you may, I liked LT. 

He was a fucking crook covering up with respectability of owning his own  

Telco Business Centre. 

‘Listen,’ he would say over the phone in the morning to his clients,  

’I think you have been downloading too much porn.’ 

Of course, he was only joking. 

I heard him use that line at least three times since I was working in his claustrophobic office in an apartment block, which he apparently owned. 

He could never afford to buy that, let alone seven houses and another office block, by selling mobile plans. 

He exuded of crookery. 

He was a thief, a con man, a liar, a survivor and most likely a closet faggot.  

He was a condescending little prick. 

I only liked his money. 

And his coffee. 

He was proud of his little espresso coffee machine. 

Nescafe is better, but I won’t say no to a pod coffee. 

So I drank as much as I could, and more. 

He was paying for it and I was getting him leads. 

As the weeks went by, his complaints got louder. 

I just drank more coffee. 

At this rate he’d bend or break.  

And I wasn’t going to fuck him in the toilet if you know what I mean.  

Even though he asked me to clean up some pubis hair on the floor. 

I wasn’t falling for that trick. 

I’m an old hand at telemarketing.  

I know all the tricks of the trade. 

I can make a weak lead stand up strong with a hard on. 

I don’t know what to call him. 

The case is still unfolding.  

He doesn’t know it, but his assault charges just got escalated to  

obstruction of justice and lying to police. 

‘He pestered me to write up a fake witness report,’ said the Macedonian  

sales rep. 

I was glad to have his loyalty. 

Old Mr. Telco loved putting words into other people’s mouths. 

‘Awake to that game a long time ago,’ said the sales rep, 

 when I asked him, he had told Mr. Old School that I was vaping most of the time. 

‘Never said such a thing,’ he said.  

It was us against him and we had formed a strong alliance  

over the two months.  

Don’t hear or see him. 

Last I heard from him, he was having an operation. 

I’d say he’s left Mr. Old School.  

I never got my commission for sales. 

‘If you don’t trust me, then you can fuck off.’  

That set off Mr. Old School when earlier on I asked him for my commission. 

It was a small ‘set him off.’  

The bigger ones were to come. 

‘I’m taking fifty dollars out of your salary for the coffee.’  

Go for it, you thieving cunt, like how you cut my salary by five dollars an hour. 

Look at the bigger picture. 

Do you think you can pin him for something bigger? 

He didn’t trust me.  

One day he checked my bag to make sure I hadn’t stolen his coffee pods. 

I only drink cheap instant coffee at home. 

Two months of Mr. Old School was enough to write a book on him. 

A lot went down. 

Sales reps need telemarketers. 

Especially in a time of a pandemic. 

I had it pretty easy. 

No face appointments, so the five leads a day were easy work. 

And not even qualified.  

Just a follow up phone call. 

But back to the diet. 

All this shit with Mr. Old School happened in May. 

It’s now nearly October and I haven’t seen any compensation. 

The police never got back to me when I sent them supporting evidence. 

But that’s all just periphery shit. 

On the main stage is my weight loss program. 

You’ll see some same players who have been there for the ride since it began. 

Like Andy, the Vietnamese chemist, and his boss Danial, 

Mr. Insane in the Ukraine.  

Or my doctor, Dr. Kilaji, whose medical report initially allowed the  

police to press charges against Mr. Old School. 

Then there is Niaz, part owner with Danial of the main branch I do all my shopping. 

He has his other branch in the Health Provider district, where I see my dentist, my physio and for a brief time, my Fijian Doctor, of Indian descent. 

I also would go to Daya Scan, for scans and ultrasounds.  

Just up the road is where Wayne lives.  

He got a triple bypass recently and the guy I was staying with who held me hostage is a ten-percenter abo. 

On Gropamine, I fear no one. 

If only Mr.-I-am-Only-the-Driver could see me now. 

I’m a certified meth head.  

And I buy it legally. 

And as Andy says it’s not addictive, ‘doesn’t draw upon dopamine supplies.’  

Twice I’ve quit and twice I’ve got back on it. 

I haven’t reached my ideal weight. 

I’ve been off it for two days over the last ten weeks, and I didn’t even get a headache off it.  

I dreamt that Mr. Old School came to visit me. 

I told Andy about how he tried to book an appointment with a wealthy Vietnamese client. 

He spent an hour on the phone bragging about how good he was, how he used to build apartments funded with Triad money in Wuhan and that he would bring a nice little Vietnamese to lunch with him named Jenny. 

‘The Vietnamese businessman took the free lunch, fucked Jenny but didn’t sign the contract.’ 

Andy laughed.  

He also signed my Compensation form. 

He likes my updates. 

I live in the chemist. 

Maybe it’s the fun drugs they stock. 

Who knows?  

Or the sincere service I get, all the time. 

Standards never drop.  

Small spender, big spender, they’ll bend over backwards to help you. 

I said to Andy not to fuck with the Vietnamese. 

‘They defeated America, then later China.’ 

Andy knows I know my stuff.  

My landlady is Vietnamese. 

I have to know my history. 

Andy used to charge me two dollars to sign forms. 

Now he does it for free. 

I guess I’m local now. 

Having a surrogate grandfather who was a chemist also helps. 

I just know how nice and kind chemists are. 

I had visited that chemist once a week for over 18 months for antibiotics. 

That’s how I found Dr. Kilaji. 

My left canine tooth was playing up. 

It was one of twenty crowns I had done in Manila the year before. 

I had no idea it was an infection in a root canal that had only been half done. 

I just assumed food had entered the gap and caused an infection. 

That it was right up in my sinuses and caused my face to swell up like an elephant man,  

I had no idea how bad it really was.  

I wouldn’t know how bad it was until Mr. Old School king hit me and 

I put on weight and I got prescribed Gropamine. 

On Gropamine, I was a can-do man.  

My wallet opened up. 

A month into Gropamine, I started root canals on my two canine teeth. 

I’m onto the last tooth and need two more treatments. 

I have had ten physio sessions.  

I’ve joined a gym. 

I’ve lost 15 kilograms. 

I’m plateauing.  

I’ve jumped ahead here. 

Where is the suspense? 

I need to continue the treatment, said Andy.  

He doesn’t want me wasting all the good work.  

So I popped another 30 milligrams that evening. 

We all need support. 

My chemists want to see a lean and mean version of myself. 

I want to see a lean mean version of myself. 

Three laxatives later, it was a fine shit. 

Too think and leaky to be of any discomfort. 

I told my trainers at the gym I’m off Gropamine. 

‘Why do you tell people you are on Gropamine?’ asked my doctor. 

Because I’m writing a book. 

He seemed pleased with that answer.  

It forces people to judge me. 

Then I can judge them back accordingly. 

No, no, that’s not my intention. 

I just want tension. 

You’d be surprised who are on diet pills. 

More so than ever with Instagram perfection, we are striving to look better ourselves. 

And Gropamine is our filter, touching up the love handles, taking out the bloating in the face and erasing the double chin forever. 

  

Sigh. 

I still fantasise about Congo Bongo. 

I’m on the phone to Rosa, since I was raced out by the Africans. 

Yes, the other one was a female from Kenya. 

‘And I would love nothing better than to smash his head on the pavement and make Bongo omelettes for breakfast.’  

Rosa laughs. She knows I'm serious about it. 

Rosa, did you know that Bongo came to Australia in 2007? 

And that he was slated to go to America under an Obama deal? 

'Hmmm.' 

But then Australia agreed to take a new batch of refugees from Rwanda. 

It consisted mostly of preachers and social workers who were caught between the cross fires of the liberating armies encroaching from the border countries of Burundi, Congo, and Uganda. 

‘You don’t know who I am.’ 

That's what Bongo said to me after I told him to stop slamming the door. 

‘I remember it very well,’ said Rosa, on the end of a phone, a great listener with all the right responses. I suspect she has a crush on me. 

'And I've seen a gang of these liberation fighters outside my house.' 

Yes, Bongo and his friends.  

Darker than the ace of Spade with District 7, 8 and 9 their new turf.  

Rosa tells me her husband Melvin has been dead over thirty years now. He used to be an accountant on Christmas Island.  

And now I’m the only single male that visits her. 

She has the Indians swarming, but she’s not interested in those snakes. 

'Bongo was in the same division as the Rwandan Liberation Army,' I continued, a terrorist group that targeted American tourists. 

Mr. T was second in charge.  

Do you remember that sitcom in the eighties Rosa? 

Yes, I do. 

Of course she didn’t but I’ll show her on YouTube later to prod her memory. 

Mr T was an African America, or Negro who acted on the television series The A Team. And I know for a fact after Michael Jackson, Mr. T is the next most loved American of all time for Malaysians. 

‘Ahhh,’ emits Rosa. 

So she's not asleep. 

She’s been caught out and knows it. 

She likes to tease me as well. 

She knows a lot more than she ever lets on. 

I just happen to know she’s clued in. 

Bongo loves dressing up as an American gangster.  

He's a spitting image of Mr. T.  

He wears lots of fake gold chains, crosses and baggy gangster pants. 

 Bongo is smart but plays dumb. 

'I know everything,' he says.  

He thinks he has a direct line to god. 

He is an evangelist after all.  

That's what he calls himself on his twitter handle.  

‘You will see,’ he whispers, over and over until you think maybe he is a medium. 

A great cover, it fools the do goodie Christians every time. 

He’s fond of snuff. 

He’s showed me some disturbing stuff coming out of Africa, cannibalism, ritualistic Muslim killings of Negros, yes Bongo is into some kinky stuff. Bleedings in a garden of Eden, I say, ‘bleeding of black blood.’ 

Bongo smiles. 

He’s a sick fuck. 

‘It’s obvious,’ said Rosa, who has woken up and wants to get me off the line, ‘that the UNHCR faked his documents and facilitated his entry into Australia.’  

Totally agree, Rosa. 

You don’t live on Christmas Island without learning a thing or two about refugees. 

‘I fucking cleaned their latrines.’  

God bless you Rosa, we’ll talk soon. 

  

Hey Rosa, how are you? 

 Sorry I'm recording you. 

 I'm recording this conversation now say hello to the recorder. 

'Say hello to the recorder.'  

Not literally... 

Sorry I wasn't being rude, but I just lost my recording. 

ROSA REALLY doesn’t give a flying fuck. 

What matters is that I’m the phone, talking to her. 

She’s a lonely lady who needs contact. 

Even a phone call keeps her happy. 

She actually loves phone calls. 

She was born to be on the phone. 

Even I know that. 

And I’m a pretty long talker too.  

As she said, ‘get on tell the story.’  

It was Rosa’s story just as much as mine. 

I brought her into it. 

She became an active listener. 

She was there, the whole fucking way.  

‘You can say that again,’ she says. 

I’ve got more material than I’ll ever need. 

But what is lacking, is material on Rosa, I told her over the phone the other day. 

‘So here is what I’m going to do,’ I told her, ‘I’m going to record our conversations.’ 

Rosa was cool with that. 

‘You are going to be a super star,’ I added. 

Rosa loved that. 

She already is my superstar but there is no reason repeating it. 

She has somewhat of a following among the international authors. 

‘They all adore you,’ I told her. 

Rosa already knows that. 

She’s as charming as fuck and a force to be reckoned with. 

She has her own safety net. 

She needs it. 

She’s living in District 9, a very dangerous area designated for African migration. 

‘Shhh,’ she says, ‘don’t scare off the young couples looking at settling down in the area.’ 

'I don’t need to', I said, ‘as soon as they see the parks full of darkies playing soccer, or the house next door they are planning to buy full of Africans having a BBQ in their living room, they may just move onto to a different suburb.’ 

‘But District 8 and 7 are also full of them,’ said Rosa who moved into this area in the 80s. 

‘No darkies then,’ she said, ‘only the occasional Asian like me, other than that, a white working-class neighbourhood.  

I'm drafting a book and putting you in it, I said.  

Repetition is the way to go when talking with someone who has dementia and possibly Alzheimer's and most definitely Parkinson’s. 

‘Hay, that’s enough cheek from you and if you keep that up, I’ll kick you, ‘says Rosa, who has given me permission to write about her. 

She’s feisty for an 81-year-old. 

‘I bet I could beat most pensioners from the kitchen sink, to the bedroom, and back.’  

She does it in record flat and usually with a hand full of knives cradled between her arms. 

‘It’s so that if anyone breaks in, they can’t stab me. 

But careful going to your room, I said.  

‘What if you fall and stab yourself with all those sharp knives you are carrying?’  

Rosa doesn’t seem too concerned.  

She’s been doing it for years.  

One moment there are spoons and knives in the draw, and the next day, they are gone. 

‘How am I supposed to make a coffee if you keep on taking the spoons from the draw and putting them back in your room? 

Rosa does not care. 

This is her thing. 

She enjoys it. 

It keeps here busy. 

It's something she is familiar with. 

It keeps her sane. 

It’s normal for her. 

And if anyone does not like it, ‘they can fuck off.’  

  

I'm usually the one doing the talking. 

I joke to Rosa how half my brain is fried on Gropamine.  

We talk about many things over the phone. 

We cover old territory, exploring new contours. 

‘You repeat yourself,’ says Rosa. 

Very astute. 

That’s another reason I love her, she’s on the ball. 

‘You mean late for the ball?’ 

Over a few nights, I called Rosa to flesh out her role in the book. 

As usual, it was a one-way conversation. 

Rosa is old fashioned like that and will only speak when asked a question. 

As you can see, I try to engage her, by repeating her name every five seconds just to make sure she’s on the line and not fallen asleep. 

  

Rosa has figured out my number and calls me now. 

She used to do it on her cordless phone until she chucked a tantrum and told her brother she didn’t want to use it. 

Even I was surprised to hear that. 

Rosa had multiple personalities, and this one must have been an attention seeking one. 

She’s always panicking when her brother doesn’t contact her. 

She even called me the other day, first time on her new phone that’s in her bedroom, to tell me to come around. 

‘What for?’ 

I can’t tell you over the phone, she said. 

Of course you can Rosa, now spit it out. 

She also wanted to tell me that she had memorised my phone number. 

I’ve written it down about twenty times. 

‘Slight exaggeration.’  

Alright, four times.  

She dialled my mobile on her new phone. 

She has migrated a long way from the cordless phone which she used to call me up to ten times a day. 

'Another exaggeration.'  

She caught me out, again. 

You loved that phone, didn’t you Rosa, it gave you freedom to roam the house without having to run to your bedroom to answer the phone. And most times by the time you arrived to answer the phone, it had stopped ringing. 

I miss hanging out with Rosa. 

I was raced out of the area. 

'Now tell your story,' said Rosa. 

With pleasure. 

WE CARE ABOUT our fat.  

We wear it with comfort.  

We just don’t want to admit that we are fat. 

That would be disrespectful to fat, right? 

Tubby. 

Love handles and all. 

It just creeped up on me. 

One day, doing ok.  

The next day, the gut wanted to take a dive below my cock line. 

If you are a guy, you’ll know what I’m taking about. 

If you are a woman, Houston, we have a problem. 

First step to overcoming a problem is facing up to it. 

 I AM WEARING 3 by large shirts. 

That’s three sizes too big.  

Three? 

Yes, sometimes even wore four. 

Given, a bit too big even for me. 

So I’m no stranger to wearing tents. 

  

I really thought the sizes were made for an Asian frame, not a large Caucasian,  

since they were made in China.   

That’s how I justified wearing those big shirts. 

Besides, they didn’t cut into me and make me look ridiculously gay. 

That’s how I look in large shirts. 

Too tight, too clingy, obviously I’m overweight. 

  

Denial, denial.  

  

Have no fear, Mommy’s Little Helper is here.  

  

Without it, I’d have Buckley’s hope of losing weight 

With it, I can at least be a player. 

It comes through with its promise.  

She’s dependable like that.  

Before you know it, people will look at your differently.  

An atmosphere of confidence will shield you from deadly radiation and self-doubt. 

You might even eye up a chick who is half your age and feel you have a chance. 

That kind of confidence is a game changer.  

It’s virility in a pill.  

Maybe misguided confidence. 

But no one cares.  

They are too busy thinking about what to cook for their next meal.  

  

On Mommy’s Little Helper, who thinks about food? 

Nearly three month’s sucking from her teat, not only am I addicted to her milk,  

I feel I have a handle on her.  

Trial and error.  

I’ll try and score some more of her soon.  

But for now, best to lay low for a while. 

Maybe the damage is already done. 

Who gives a flying fuck?  

Still lots of great work to do. 

More pounds to shred. 

More weights to lift.  

I’m at a weight where whatever extra weight I lose, will come off effortlessly.  

I know it sounds odd, but once you start feeling good about yourself, everything else falls into place.  

‘Don’t look at the scale every day,’ said my doctor. 

What he meant was, get fucked up and enjoy the tunes watching Japanese soft porn.  

I love my doctor.  

  

Bongo said once, ‘You don’t know who I am.’  

Didn’t Faith say the same? 

Threats threats and more. 

Wish those niggers would return back to where they came from.  

I admit I’m being moody.  

Moving in this room was a back-up plan.  

It’s time. 

I’ll tell Trang. 

‘He keeps on slamming the door.’  

‘But I already told him to do it quietly.’  

I know, and you also told him ten times to move back to his old room, but he didn’t. 

He’s a sly and calculating nigger.  

I don’t think he was a refugee. 

The guy from Sri Lanka wasn’t either.  

The last tenant even told me he had fake documents made up.  

Australia truly is the promised land. 

Bongo is slowly driving me crazy.  

The ignorant pygmy fuck keeps on slamming his door. 

My room is next door. 

The walls are thin.  

He was told not to slam the door. 

Faith would slam the door when she was staying in the same room as him. Now she just slams it when she visits him from two rooms down. 

It all began with slamming the door. 

I do late night work. 

I need my sleep. 

But all I ever hear from the Africans is loud laughing from free loader Faith and Bongo slamming his door. 

‘We’ll let the white guy know who is really in charge.’ 

Bongo isn’t scared of me. 

‘I’m not scared of you.’  

Spare me the lecture and close the door gently. 

Even Trang gave you a personal lesson on how to close the door without making an annoying bang. 

Bongo has forgot that.  

For someone who knows everything, he’s very forgetful. 

He has a big indentation on his skull. 

‘That was for not throwing the rubbish out at the refugee camp.’  

Oh, Jontus, that’s what Faith calls him, you really have a sense of humour. 


Bongo is a cunt. 
A dumb cunt. 
 

‘You don’t know who I am.’  


I know who you are.  


You are a fake refugee and a lazy cunt.  


‘I’m in Australia for work.’ 

 
Well why didn’t you feel in the application form I gave you for roadying? 


Because he’s fucking lazy.
 

That’s my Gropamine rant. 
 

I haven’t finished with Faith.  


I fantasized putting the knife to her.  


I have a screwdriver handy in my room. 
 

I’ll fucking stab Bongo if he tries to stab me. 

‘See this,’ said Bongo when relationships between Congo and Australia were better. 

He had a knife attached to his ankle. 

‘I carry with me everywhere.’ 

 

 
He’s a refugee who was a militant who has killed many people. 

 
That’s what they do. 
 

It all begins with the slamming of the door. 
Africans are backward people. 

 
He is the stupidest fuck I’ve ever met.  


And Faith is holding on to her meal ticket. 
 

‘Keep your nose out of other people’s business.’
 

So then why the fuck did you say you were from the Congo when you are from Kenya? 


‘I’ve learnt not to trust people; they’ll use the information against me. 

’
Exactly. 
 

I got on the Department of Border Control website and tipped them off that an over stayer was staying here with me.  


They haven’t acted upon the two tip offs. 
 

Useless fucks.
 

It was either report her or eventually be driven crazy when anything could happen. 


I bet Faith tortured kittens for fun back in Kenya.  

  

Don’t let Bongo intimidate you.  

‘You ask anyone who I am outside.’  

I don’t need to.  

I saw you at the Muslim grocery store handing over cash to that dodgy Afghan.  

You are a drug dealer.  

How else can you support Faith on the low income of welfare support? 

  

In the early days, Bongo would have his friends around. 

Five black Africans would congregate outside Trang’s house like it was the fucking ghetto. 

Not a good look at all. 

The area is not a good look. 

And the three surrounding suburbs is an even worse look. 

The Africans have congregated around these suburbs making it their paradise. 

Safety in numbers, hay? 

That’s how they work. 

It was no accident the Faith turned up here. 

She wouldn’t turn up, say in Bayswater. 

Just not enough niggers there to hoodwink. 

She hoodwinked Bongo. 

I was there when it happened. 

I was an accomplice. 

I helped in keeping her hidden from Trang. 

I should have just told the landlady that Bongo had sneaked in someone. 

  

But I didn’t. 

I thought I was doing the right and humane thing. 

First mistake, Africans aren’t very grateful. 

They’ll take as much as they can and that doesn’t mean they owe you anything. 

If anything, what it means, they have more right to fuck you over. 

The bigger the fuck over, the better, in their primitive tribal eyes. 

  

  

In the early days I got to know Bongo. 

He was agreeable, polite and happy. 

Faith, if that’s her real name, dragged him down to the gutters. 

He was now banished from the Garden of Eden and he didn’t even get to fuck her. 

Bongo has intimidated me. 

He was brilliant about it. 

It couldn’t have worked any better. 

First, he got respect, yes, I fear him, secondly, it looked great in front of Faith. 

He’s quite good at knocking on doors, loudly. 

So is Faith. 

These primitives are better without doors. 

Faith loves knocking loud on my door. 

Now Bongo is making a habit of it. 

They want me out. 

Oldest trick in the book, knocking loud on door until the person staying inside that room either goes crazy and insane, or moves out. 

I moved out. 

Another secret weapon of the Africans was singing. 

Faith could do it all day and night. 

I don’t wear ear plugs anymore. 

I don’t need to wear them. 

I don’t wear noise filtering headsets. 

I don’t need to wear noise filtering headsets. 

  

Faith and Bongo should get married. 

And return back to Africa.  

Have kids. 

Embrace their culture. 

Be among their own. 

And stop fucking terrorising white people. 

  

In due time they’ll take over Australia and race out the white man.  

Like they did in South Africa.  

It’s their way. 

They have the nastiness for it too.  

I crave for a peace and quiet place. 

The Nepalese was referred to me by another Indian, Kewal.  

For a year I had to listen to this cunt sing and talk and fuck around.  

He was a lazy ass too.  

‘He’s your best friend.’  

Now what the fuck does Congo Bongo mean by that. 

He won’t ever tell me.  

He’s incapable.  

It’s just creepy the way he says that. 

Could I just clap both hands around his ears, or spit on him or kick him in the balls or put a bullet between his eyes. 

‘He’s your best friend.’  

You fucking retard, Bongo. 

It’s confirmed.  

He’s a guy who got raced out of his last place for not doing the cleaning.  

He’s just like you, but a brown lazy nigger. 

He’s just like Faith, who is a black dirty nigger. 

How the fuck did you get into Australia, begs the question.  

Fuck Australia has low standards.  

They got into Australia by lying.  

The dirty bitch cooks at 10.15 pm. 

Is this some kind of I’m an ‘Adult African’ kind of thing? 

She did that when I started work for Lawrence Tan. 

I was in this room. 

She banged and kept me awake.  

Then the nigger, Congo Bongo started dragging a big steal case from his room and into the kitchen. 

Then I moved back to my old room. 

I did tell Faith to be quiet after 10 pm. 

No, she didn’t listen and kept on banging.  

I hate her. 

I always will hate her. 

Wish the nigger gets deported back to Kenya. 

I thought niggers were dumb and agreeable. 

No, they are dirty filthy arrogant and nigger fuckers. 

Well she had fucked over Bongo. 

And for that I am grateful.  

She’s not all bad. 

‘I’m paying rent,’ she told me. 

Bongo said she wasn’t.  

Bongo said she’d pay him back.  

She even wrote it on a piece of paper. 

That was good enough for the dumb ass. 

Faith is a pathological liar. 

Don’t trust a nigger, said my neighbour. 

‘They are cunning.’ 

Faith is a dirty ugly slut. 

You know she’ll never buy anything for the house, like bleach or toilet paper. 

She’s a dirty little mole. 

‘You don’t know who I am.’  

Yes, I do, a dirty nigger with a black face you keep on trying to erase with potato starch. 

I can hear the dog a few rooms down.  

I fucking hate him too. 

He has three bikes near the gate. 

I bump into them all the time. 

I’ll tell Trang, then Trang will tell him to move them, which he will, then the next day they will be back in the way, near the gate. 

What a fucking dirty dog. 

  

I call Rosa often from District 1, designated by the State as Nigger Free Zone. 

Hadn't things changed from the 80s when the local aborigines were banned from entering the city of Perth? 

Now the Noongar can live it up big in District 2, where the clubs, whore house and drug dealers can be found.  

'So what's the update,' she asks. 

I remember my 20s working as a waiter at this sort of high-class restaurant in the big city I was living in. 

I was at my prime. 

The gays called me ‘The Body.’ 

Rosa’s eyebrows arch. 

Isn’t that what they called Elle McPherson, the famous 90’s Australian swim wear model, asked Rosa. 

Well there you go. 

I was called the body. 

And boy didn’t I like to fucking flaunt it? 

These days I try and hide it, camouflage or just deny I’m even fat. 

‘Get back to the story,’ said Rosa. 

Sorry, a slight detour. 

Blame it on the Gropamine. 

Been fighting psychosis the last few weeks. 

Nearly took me down. 

‘What do you mean, nearly took you down?’ asked Rosa, who always thought I was crazy from the first day I met her. 

‘And if you weren’t crazy, I would never have invited you into my home.’ 

How’s that for an endorsement? 

The manager of this five-star restaurant was in his late forties. 

He had love handles. 

You could see them spreading out under his starched white shirt. 

He had a balding head. 

And he was a creep. 

A faggot who wanted to fuck my ass. 

‘Sydney is famous for that,’ said Rosa. 

It was I said, and I had a few gay fans to who wanted to fuck The Body. 

‘I bet you tried to sell your ass too?’ 

Rosa, decorum please. 

He used to make wise cracks. 

‘I bet you’re got a tight ass under those baggy black pants.’ 

Then he’d pat my ass. 

He was the manager and could get away with shit like that. 

It was before PC crept into the workplace. 

I played it up to keep my job and the creep got his money’s worth by the occasional grope. 

It’s how things worked in hospitality back then. 

  

  

Now I had become that man, the lurch, I was the sleaze bag with the love handles and gut that wanted to play touch the fucking floor. Rosa chuckled on the end of the line. 

‘You still got me,’ she says. 

Huh, and isn’t everyone jealous I said. 

‘Betsy really wants you bad,’ she says. 

She’s talking about her Burmese friend who has piles. 

Betsy visits Rosa most days. 

They eat fish and chips from Ali’s, a fish and chip shop across the road. 

Rosa uses to eat Red Rooster until they closed it down over two decades ago. 

Each day goes like this\: 

‘Betsy is so cheap; she never pays her half.’ 

Other days it goes like this: 

‘She paid her half. She’s a good girl.’ 

A 72-year-old girl, she looks good for her age. 

Some days Rosa doesn’t remember what she ate, if it was fish and chips for bread and eggs. 

It’s her right to be forgetful and to enjoy the now. 

Sometimes I see she has left the element on the stove. 

I turn it off. 

‘Don’t tell my brother,’ she says, ‘he’ll send me to a nursing home.’ 

I haven’t told him yet. 

But just imagine if her house burnt down. 

Could I live with it? 

No I couldn’t, if I didn’t tell her brother that sometimes she leaves the element on. 

What if she puts her hand on it and burns herself? 

So far it hasn’t happened yet. Heaven forbids. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I HAVEN’T WEIGHED myself on a scale for 25 years.  

I didn’t need to. 

My weight was manageable. 

Or so I thought.  

Yet the vanity side of me was scared to death of the scales.  

     It's like a smoker who has his morning coughing fit. 

Is that blood I just coughed out? 

A furtive look. Looks fine by me, for now. 

      Being overweight is about being in ignorant bliss. 

It was a case of what you don’t know won’t hurt you.  

But boy did I know. 

 How much did I really weigh? 

Surely not over 90 kilograms. 

And a lot of that weight must be muscle mass. 

And we all know muscle weighs more than fat. 

 Surely the fat was just from the two litres of milk I had been consuming most nights over the last two months.  

Who doesn't go through their dairy stages? 

I showed restraint by skipping the cheese. 

Some called it bulking up, I personally called it a treat before retiring to bed for the night. 

Milk went so well with cereals. 

A glass of milk over lunch, magic, 

Another litre over dinner, sublime. 

I know, I can hear you saying, but wasn't it a bit excessive. 

Didn't Oscar Wilde say nothing 'exceeds like excess.'  

Didn't he also say he had nothing else to declare but his genius?  

Of course he did.  

I've used both those lines passing through Australian Customs. 

'Oops, that's a high-level security search.' 

Quoting 19th century poets never really helped my cause. 

I suppose that was the point of quoting Oscar Wilde, winding up Officialdom. 

BEING ON DUROMINE is a trip within itself.  

Only the brave and hard-core drug abusers need apply for a course of these special diet pills.  

      On Duromine, I listen to a lot of techno music.  

I listened to it before I was on the diet pills.  

I used to abuse Tramadol.  

I'm talking about ten capsules a session. 

I abuse Tramadol. 

That sounds better. 

      I'm abusing Duromine. 

I’d be disappointed in myself if I didn’t. 

I'm hoping my doctor isn't reading this. 

I still have an untouched bottle of Valium you prescribed; I tell him. 

He has seen it all. 

I guess he likes my approach, just as dishonest as most of the junkies who enter his clinic, but at least believable.  

TRAMADOL DOES STUFF to you. 

You can drink and fuck all night on it and still not blow your load. 

On Tramadol, hallucinations of nightmarish proportions can be induced. 

Have you ever been sniffed out by a hairy beast who is seeing if you are friend or foe? 

      And being the only white person among the congregation and off his head on Tramadol and Bintang beer, does tend to make me a prime target. 

I used to scratch myself and have vivid waking dreams.  

I didn’t want to sleep. 

I wasn’t sure I’d wake up. 

      Caught up in a dengue nightmare, this was just as bad as being sniffed out by the Balinese mythological beast, the Barong. 

It’s a smelly looking hairy beast that is guardian of the spirit world. 

It looks more troll than a shiny god. 

Rangda is Barong's counterpart, an evil witch. 

To be honest they are both as ugly as each other and would be a perfect couple. Perhaps Barong, Ying, and Ranga, Yang, are two sides of the same corn. 

None of this concerned me at the time. 

I was keen for the festivities to end so me and the Mad Hindu could hit some whore houses. 

It seems that Barong sensed that, and he let me off the hook. 

It says a lot about the Balinese men, that they could be worse in morality than me. 

I think the Barong was seeking out Ranga for a good fuck behind the stage, if I was to be truly culturally honest. 

Tramadol was a comforter when dengue hit me hardest. 

I just slept and dreamed and scratched on Tramadol which at least helped me forget exactly what dengue was doing to me. 

The real witch isn’t Rangda, it’s aedes aegypti (the common mosquito), the carrier of the dengue virus. 

If it doesn’t floor you, it will kill you.  

It was doing both, I thought. 

‘Help me, help me,’ I said to Sana over the phone.  

He was back in Ubud. 

I had called him up from the hotel. 

It was base for whoring at the chicken farm down the road. 

I wasn’t going to survive without the help from Sana and his family. 

I really felt I was going to die in that hotel room. 

Dengue made me feel rotten. 

Aches and pains, all over. 

A bad headache. 

Those white blood cells were being invaded by the dengue virus and my immune system, in its response to the alien invasion, was killing me. 

Where and when I got it, I have an idea. The incubation time is between four and seven days. 

It could have the whore house, or the rubbish dump, or even just the bathroom at Sana’s house in Ubud. 

But a few days later, before I flew out, I was back at the chicken farms. 

How many times have I changed my flight or just cancelled them and bought another ticket because of the rotten hangover and depression from booze Tramadol? 

Too many to count. 

  

nigga | ˈnɪɡə | noun offensive a contemptuous term for a black or dark-skinned person. 

 — Oxford Dictionary.  

 

‘I WILL CHOP your head off if you do it again.’ 

Chop my head off for what? 

His face looks like lumpy turds. 
As his face muscles cramp up from anger, the turds pop up and show how angry he really is. 

He’s so angry he needs to take a crap. 

He won’t throw the rubbish out. 

He won’t ever throw his own rubbish out. 

He’s a refugee who doesn’t like to throw out his own rubbish. 

I’ve put his rubbish bag on the handlebars of his bike. 

I had also hung his rubbish bag on his door. 

I also hung his rubbish bag on his handlebars another time. 

Congo Bongo won’t tolerate that. 

His man hood is being threatened. 

That I’ve thrown out his rubbish for the past two years living with him doesn’t factor into what he’s going to do. 

‘If you do that again, I’ll cut your head off. I don’t care what happens to me, but I’ll track you down to the end of the earth and cut your head off if you ever fucking do that again.’ 

I had no idea he spoke fluent English.  

He had been hiding his English kills for a long time.  

But I suspected he understood more than he let on. 

This guy scares the fuck out of me. 

He’s not normal. 

He’s the Lord of War. 

And he wants my head. 

He’s going to cut it off. 

I’m fucked. 

I’m in my room and he’s knocking hard on it. 

He isn’t kicking the door in, but he might as well. 

He’s overreacting. 

You can’t defend yourself in Australia. 

It will be used against you. 

Congo Bongo is in the promised land. 

He knows he can threaten to cut my head off and get away with it. 

Africans talk, you know. 

There is no Tanzania justice of putting a burning tire around your head. 

The Africans are in fucking paradise where they can all be Lords of Wars. 

‘He doesn’t like black people, isn’t it obvious.’ 

It was to the police. 

They left, after lecturing me, saying Bongo’s papers were in order. 

‘I really enjoyed seeing the police,’ said Bongo. 

Yes Bongo, you are in the promised land and your skin colour will protect you in more ways than you’ll ever know. 

For one, you won’t get burnt during the ferocious summers. 

Two… 

Bongo isn’t listening.  

He’s moving on. 

He’s an untouchable. 

And he knows it. 

And if something doesn’t match up to his expectations, he’ll contact the UN in Geneva and complain. 

I have that on a recording. 

I’m not fucking with you. 

He’s going to contact the UN in Geneva about how badly he’s been treated in Australia. 

Well fuck a duck, again. 

When he’s angry there is a hatred in his eyes that no one should ever have to plummet. 

Those lumpy turds just break out all over his face. 

No one fucks with Congo Bongo. 

NO ONE.  

That’s his angry look. 

The other one is well practised. 

He’s that cute kid in the 80’s sitcom Different Strokes. 

According to IMDB, Different Strokes ‘is about the misadventures of a wealthy Manhattan family who adopt the children of their late African American housekeep from Harlem.’ 

Congo Bongo can really bring on the charm. 

‘Welcome, welcome.’ 

Or if you upset him, the Rambo side of him reveals himself. 

‘I will cut your head off.’  

What for? 

He’s a refugee from the Congo. 

We don’t know where Bongo is from. 

He could be from the Democratic Republic of Congo. 

He could be from anywhere. 

Africa is a big place. 

I’ve asked him about his story. 

Nothing made sense. 

His sister is living nearby in Fremantle. 

She’s on government payments. 

Bongo is too. 

Nothing he says makes sense. 

Perfect cover. 

And he’s a refugee. 

An even better cover. 

That’s why Fay is such a good partner for him. 

She’s vague about her origins. 

Firstly, she said she was from the Congo. 

‘Kinshasa.’ 

She really must think we are dumb in Australia. 

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘Are you from the same place as Congo Bongo.’ 

Now Bongo isn’t from Kinshasa. 

He’s from wherever he wants to be. 

Fay is from Kenya. 

She’s in her 30’s, dark complexion. 

Put it this way, like Bongo, she doesn’t need to wear sun protection cream. 

Fay’s history doesn’t matter. 

Nor does Bongo’s. 

They are both African and entitlement is a big part of their makeup. 

‘If you dare me, you will not be around for much longer.’ 

You should have seen her head swivelling like a chicken who had its head decapitated, only attached by a few sinews. 

I think what she was trying to say is that she’ll put pins in her voodoo doll and kill me with her magic. 

She’s not called Black Magic Woman for nothing. 

SIGH. 

I still fantasise about Congo Bongo. 

I’m on the phone to Rosa, since I was raced out by the Africans. 

Yes, the other one was a female from Kenya. 

‘And I would love nothing better than to smash his head on the pavement and make Bongo omelettes for breakfast.’  

Rosa laughs. She knows I'm serious about it. 

Rosa, did you know that Bongo came to Australia in 2007? 

And that he was slated to go to America under an Obama deal? 

'Hmmm.' 

But then Australia agreed to take a new batch of refugees from Rwanda. 

It consisted mostly of preachers and social workers who were caught between the cross fires of the liberating armies encroaching from the border countries of Burundi, Congo, and Uganda. 

‘You don’t know who I am.’ 

That's what Bongo said to me after I told him to stop slamming the door. 

‘I remember it very well,’ said Rosa, on the end of a phone, a great listener with all the right responses. I suspect she has a crush on me. 

'And I've seen a gang of these liberation fighters outside my house.' 

Yes, Bongo and his friends.  

Darker than the ace of Spade with District 7, 8 and 9 their new turf.  

Rosa tells me her husband Melvin has been dead over thirty years now. He used to be an accountant on Christmas Island.  

And now I’m the only single male that visits her. 

She has the Indians swarming, but she’s not interested in those snakes. 

'Bongo was in the same division as the Rwandan Liberation Army,' I continued, a terrorist group that targeted American tourists. 

Mr. T was second in charge.  

Do you remember that sitcom in the eighties Rosa? 

Yes, I do. 

Of course she didn’t but I’ll show her on YouTube later to prod her memory. 

Mr T was an African America, or Negro who acted on the television series The A Team. And I know for a fact after Michael Jackson, Mr. T is the next most loved American of all time for Malaysians. 

‘Ahhh,’ emits Rosa. 

So she's not asleep. 

She’s been caught out and knows it. 

She likes to tease me as well. 

She knows a lot more than she ever lets on. 

I just happen to know she’s clued in. 

Bongo loves dressing up as an American gangster.  

He's a spitting image of Mr. T.  

He wears lots of fake gold chains, crosses and baggy gangster pants. 

 Bongo is smart but plays dumb. 

'I know everything,' he says.  

He thinks he has a direct line to god. 

He is an evangelist after all.  

That's what he calls himself on his twitter handle.  

A great cover, it fools the do-goodie Christians every time. 

‘It’s obvious,’ said Rosa, who has woken up and wants to get me off the line, ‘that the UNHCR faked his documents and facilitated his entry into Australia.’  

Totally agree, Rosa. 

You don’t live on Christmas Island without learning a thing or two about refugees. 

‘I fucking cleaned their latrines.’  

God bless you Rosa, we’ll talk soon. 

 HEY ROSA, HOW are you? 

 Sorry I'm recording you. 

 I'm recording this conversation now say hello to the recorder. 

'Say hello to the recorder.'  

Not literally... 

Recording or not, what matters is that I'm on the phone, talking to her. 

She’s a lonely lady who needs contact. 

Even a phone call keeps her happy. 

She actually loves phone calls. 

She was born to be on the phone. 

Even I know that. 

And I’m a pretty long talker too.  

As she said, ‘get on, tell the story.’  

It was Rosa’s story just as much as mine. 

I brought her into it. 

She became an active listener. 

She was there, the whole fucking way.  

‘You can say that again,’ she says. 

I’ve got more material than I’ll ever need. 

But what is lacking is material on Rosa, I told her over the phone the other day. 

‘So here is what I’m going to do,’ I told her, ‘I’m going to record our conversations.’ 

Rosa was cool with that. 

‘You are going to be a super star,’ I added. 

Rosa loved that. 

She already is my superstar but there is no reason repeating it. 

She has somewhat of a following among the international authors. 

‘They all adore you,’ I told her. 

Rosa already knows that. 

She’s as charming as fuck and a force to be reckoned with. 

She has her own safety net. 

She needs it. 

She’s living in District 9, a very dangerous area designated for African migration. 

‘Shhh,’ she says, ‘don’t scare off the young couples looking at settling down in the area.’ 

'I don’t need to', I said, ‘as soon as they see the parks full of darkies playing soccer, or the house next door they are planning to buy full of Africans having a BBQ in their living room, they may just move onto to a different suburb.’ 

‘But District 8 and 7 are also full of them,’ said Rosa who moved into this area in the 80s. 

‘No darkies then,’ she said, ‘only the occasional Asian like me, other than that, a white working-class neighbourhood.  

I'm drafting a book and putting you in it, I said.  

Repetition is the way to go when talking with someone who has dementia and possibly Alzheimer's and most definitely Parkinson’s. 

‘Hay, that’s enough cheek from you and if you keep that up, I’ll kick you, ‘says Rosa, who has given me permission to write about her. 

She’s feisty for an 81-year-old. 

‘I bet I could beat most pensioners from the kitchen sink, to the bedroom, and back.’  

She does it in record flat and usually with a hand full of knives cradled between her arms. 

‘It’s so that if anyone breaks in, they can’t stab me. 

But careful going to your room, I said.  

‘What if you fall and stab yourself with all those sharp knives you are carrying?’  

Rosa doesn’t seem too concerned.  

She’s been doing it for years.  

One moment there are spoons and knives in the draw, and the next day, they are gone. 

‘How am I supposed to make a coffee if you keep on taking the spoons from the draw and putting them back in your room? 

Rosa does not care. 

This is her thing. 

She enjoys it. 

It keeps here busy. 

It's something she is familiar with. 

It keeps her sane. 

It’s normal for her. 

And if anyone does not like it, ‘they can fuck off.’  

I'm usually the one doing the talking. 

I joke to Rosa how half my brain is fried on Duromine.  

We talk about many things over the phone. 

We cover old territory, exploring new contours. 

‘You repeat yourself,’ says Rosa. 

Very astute. 

That’s another reason I love her, she’s on the ball. 

‘You mean late for the ball?’ 

Over a few nights, I called Rosa to flesh out her role in the book. 

As usual, it was a one-way conversation. 

Rosa is old fashioned like that and will only speak when asked a question. 

As you can see, I try to engage her, by repeating her name every five seconds just to make sure she’s on the line and not fallen asleep. 

Rosa has figured out my number and calls me now. 

She had no problems doing it on her cordless phone until she chucked a tantrum and told her brother she didn’t want to use it. 

I was even surprised to hear that. 

Rosa had multiple personalities, and this one must have been an attention seeking one. 

She’s always panicking when her brother doesn’t contact her. 

She even called me the other day, the first time on her new phone that’s in her bedroom, to tell me to come around. 

‘What for?’ 

I can’t tell you over the phone, she said. 

Of course you can Rosa, now spit it out. 

She also wanted to tell me that she had memorised my phone number. 

I’ve written it down about twenty times. 

‘Slight exaggeration.’  

Alright, four times.  

She dialled my mobile on her new phone. 

She has migrated a long way from the cordless phone which she used to call me up to ten times a day. 

'Another exaggeration.'  

She caught me out, again. 

You loved that phone, didn’t you Rosa, it gave you freedom to roam the house without having to run to your bedroom to answer the phone. And most times by the time you arrived to answer the phone, it had stopped ringing. 

I miss hanging out with Rosa. 

I was raced out of the area. 

'Now tell your story,' said Rosa. 

With pleasure. We care about our fat.  

We wear it with comfort.  

We just don’t want to admit that we are fat. 

That would be disrespectful to fat, right? 

Tubby. 

Love handles and all. 

It just creeped up on me. 

One day, doing ok.  

The next day, the gut wanted to take a dive below my cock line. 

If you are a guy, you know what I’m talking about. 

If you are a woman, Houston, we have a problem. 

  

First step to overcoming a problem is facing it.                            

 I am wearing 3 large shirts. 

That’s three sizes too big.  

Three? 

Yes, sometimes even wore four. 

Given, a bit too big even for me. 

So I’m no stranger to wearing tents.  

I really thought the sizes were made for an Asian frame, not a large Caucasian,  

since they were made in China.   

That’s how I justified wearing those big shirts. 

Besides, they didn’t cut into me and make me look ridiculously gay. 

That’s how I look in large shirts. 

Too tight, too clingy, obviously I’m overweight. 

Denial, denial.  

Have no fear, Mommy’s Little Helper is here.  

Without it, I’d have Buckley’s hope of losing weight 

With it, I can at least be a player. 

It comes through with its promise.  

She’s dependable like that.  

Before you know it, people will look at you differently.  

An atmosphere of confidence will shield you from deadly radiation and self-doubt. 

You might even eye up a chick who is half your age and feel you have a chance. 

That kind of confidence is a game changer.  

It’s virility in a pill.  

Maybe misguided confidence. 

But no one cares.  

They are too busy thinking about what to cook for their next meal.  

ON MOMMY’S LITTLE Helper, who thinks about food? 

Nearly three month’s sucking from her teat, not only am I addicted to her milk,  

I feel I have a handle on her.  

Trial and error.  

I’ll try and score some more of her soon.  

But for now, best to lay low for a while. 

Maybe the damage is already done. 

Who gives a flying fuck?  

Still lots of great work to do. 

More pounds to shred. 

More weights to lift.  

I’m at a weight where whatever extra weight I lose, will come off effortlessly.  

I know it sounds odd, but once you start feeling good about yourself, everything else falls into place.  

‘Don’t look at the scale every day,’ said my doctor. 

What he meant was, get fucked up and enjoy the tunes watching Japanese soft porn.  

I love my doctor.  

          Bongo said once, ‘You don’t know who I am.’  

Didn’t Faith say the same? 

Threats threats and more. 

Wish those niggas would return back to where they came from.  

I admit I’m being moody.  

Moving in this room was a backup plan.  

It’s time. 

I’ll tell Trang. 

‘He keeps on slamming the door.’  

‘But I already told him to do it quietly.’  

I know, and you also told him ten times to move back to his old room, but he didn’t. 

He’s a sly and calculating nigga.  

I don’t think he was a refugee. 

The guy from Sri Lanka wasn’t either.  

The last tenant even told me he had fake documents made up.  

Australia truly is the promised land. 

Bongo is slowly driving me crazy.  

The ignorant pygmy fuck keeps on slamming his door. 

Bongo is a cunt.  

A dumb cunt.  

‘You don’t know who I am.’  

I know who you are.  

‘You will see.’ 

He whispers that, all the fucking time. 

Pastor Bongo, the evangelist. 

Well fuck a fucking duck. 

You are a fake refugee and a lazy cunt.  

‘I’m in Australia for work.’  

Well why didn’t you feel in the application form I gave you for roadying? 

Because he’s fucking lazy. 

That’s my Duromine rant.  

I haven’t finished with Faith.  

I fantasied putting the knife to her.  

I have a screwdriver handy in my room.  

I’ll fucking stab Bongo if he tries to stab me.  

He’s a refugee who was a militant who has killed many people.  

That’s what they do.  

It all begins with the slamming of the door.  

Africans are backward people.  

He is the stupidest fuck I’ve ever met.  

And Faith is holding on to her meal ticket.  

‘Keep your nose out of other people’s business.’ 

So then why the fuck did you say you were from the Congo when you are from Kenya? 

‘I’ve learnt not to trust people; they’ll use the information against me.’ 

Exactly.  

I got on the Department of Border Control website and tipped them off that an over stayer was staying here with me.  

They haven’t acted upon the two tip offs.  

Useless fucks. 

It was either report her or eventually be driven crazy when anything could happen.  

I bet Faith tortured kittens for fun back in Kenya.  

Don’t let Bongo intimidate you.  

‘You ask anyone who I am outside.’  

I don’t need to.  

I saw you at the Muslim grocery store handing over cash to that dodgy Afghan.  

You are a drug dealer.  

How else can you support Faith on the low income of welfare support? 

In the early days, Bongo would have his friends around. 

Five black Africans would congregate outside Trang’s house like it was the fucking ghetto. 

Not a good look at all. 

The area is not a good look. 

And the three surrounding suburbs is an even worse look. 

The Africans have congregated around these suburbs making it their paradise. 

Safety in numbers, hay? 

That’s how they work. 

It was no accident the Faith turned up here. 

She wouldn’t turn up, say in Bayswater. 

Just not enough nigga there to hoodwink. 

She hoodwinked Bongo. 

I was there when it happened. 

I was an accomplice. 

I helped in keeping her hidden from Trang. 

I should have just told the landlady that Bongo had sneaked in someone. 

But I didn’t. 

I thought I was doing the right and humane thing. 

First mistake, Africans aren’t very grateful. 

They’ll take as much as they can and that doesn’t mean they owe you anything. 

If anything, what it means, they have more right to fuck you over. 

The bigger the fuck over, the better, in their primitive tribal eyes. 

In the early days I got to know Bongo. 

He was agreeable, polite and happy. 

Faith, if that’s her real name, dragged him down to the gutters. 

He was now banished from the Garden of Eden and he didn’t even get to fuck her. 

Bongo has intimidated me. 

He was brilliant about it. 

It couldn’t have worked any better. 

First, he got respect, yes, I fear him, secondly, it looked great in front of Faith. 

He’s quite good at knocking on doors, loudly. 

So is Faith. 

These primitives are better without doors. 

Faith loves knocking loud on my door. 

Now Bongo is making a habit of it. 

They want me out. 

Oldest trick in the book, knocking loud on the door until the person staying inside that room either goes crazy and insane, or moves out. 

I moved out. 

Another secret weapon of the Africans was singing. 

Faith could do it all day and night. 

I don’t wear ear plugs anymore. 

I don’t need to wear them. 

I don’t wear noise filtering headsets. 

I don’t need to wear noise filtering headsets. 

Faith and Bongo should get married. 

And return back to Africa.  

Have kids. 

Embrace their culture. 

Be among their own. 

And stop fucking terrorising white people. 

In due time they’ll take over Australia and race out the white man.  

Like they did in South Africa.  

It’s their way. 

They have the nastiness for it too.  

I crave for a peaceful and quiet place. 

The Nepalese was referred to me by another Indian, Kewal.  

For a year I had to listen to this cunt sing and talk and fuck around.  

He was a lazy ass too.  

‘He’s your best friend.’  

Now what the fuck does Congo Bongo mean by that. 

He won’t ever tell me.  

He’s incapable.  

It’s just creepy the way he says that. 

Could I just clap both hands around his ears, or spit on him or kick him in the balls or put a bullet between his eyes. 

‘He’s your best friend.’  

You fucking retard. 

It’s confirmed. It’s a bullet between the eyes. 

He’s a guy who got raced out of his last place for not doing the cleaning.  

He’s just like you, but a brown lazy 

nigga. 

He’s just like Faith, who is a black dirty 

nigga. 

How the fuck did you get into Australia, begs the question.  

Fuck Australia has low standards.  

They got into Australia by lying.  

The dirty bitch cooks at 10.15 pm. 

Is this some kind of I’m an ‘Adult African’ kind of thing? 

She did that when I started work for Mr. Telcom 

I was in this room. 

She banged and kept me awake.  

Then the nigga, Congo Bongo started dragging a big steal case from his room and into the kitchen. 

Then I moved back to my old room. 

I did tell Faith to be quiet after 10 pm. 

No, she didn’t listen and kept on banging pots and pans.  

I hate her. 

Why couldn’t she cook for at 8 pm, or even 9 pm. 

Because it wouldn’t be annoying me. 

I always will hate her. 

Wish the nigga gets deported back to Kenya. 

I thought nigga were dumb and agreeable. 

No, they are dirty filthy arrogant and nigga fuckers. 

Well she had fucked over Bongo. 

And for that I am grateful.  

She’s not all bad. 

‘I’m paying rent,’ she told me. 

Bongo said she wasn’t.  

Bongo said she’d pay him back.  

She even wrote it on a piece of paper. 

That was good enough for the dumb ass. 

Faith is a pathological liar. 

Don’t trust a nigga, said my neighbour. 

‘They are cunning.’ 

Faith is a dirty ugly slut. 

You know she’ll never buy anything for the house, like bleach. 

She’s a dirty little mole. 

‘You don’t know who I am.’  

Yes, I do, a dirty nigga with a black face you keep on trying to erase with potato starch. 

I can hear the dog a few rooms down.  

I fucking hate him too. 

He has three bikes near the gate. 

I bump into them all the time. 

I’ll tell Trang, then Trang will tell him to move them, which he will, then the next day they will be back in the way, near the gate. 

What a fucking dirty dog. 

Did I tell you about his ten suitcases? 

They blocked up the whole fucking front yard. 

I call Rosa often from District 1, designated by the State as 

nigga Free Zone. 

Hadn't things changed from the 80s when the local aborigines were banned from entering the city of Perth? 

Now the Noongar can live it up big in District 2, where the clubs, whore house and drug dealers can be found.  

'So what's the update,' she asks. 

I REMEMBER my 20s working as a waiter at this sort of high-class restaurant in the big city I was living in. 

I was at my prime. 

The gays called me ‘The Body.’ 

Rosa’s eyebrows arch. 

Isn’t’ that what they called Elle McPherson, the famous 90’s Australian swimwear model, asked Rosa. 

Well there you go. 

I was called the body. 

And boy didn’t I like to fucking flaunt it? 

These days I try and hide it, camouflage or just deny I’m even fat. 

‘Get back to the story,’ said Rosa. 

Sorry, a slight detour. 

Blame it on the Duromine. 

Been fighting psychosis the last few weeks. 

Nearly took me down. 

‘What do you mean, nearly took you down?’ asked Rosa, who always thought I was crazy from the first day I met her. 

‘And if you weren’t crazy, I would never have invited you into my home.’ 

How’s that for an endorsement? 

The manager of this five-star restaurant was in his late forties. 

He had love handles. 

You could see them spreading out under his starched white shirt. 

He had a balding head. 

And he was a creep. 

A faggot who wanted to fuck my ass. 

‘Sydney is famous for that,’ said Rosa. 

It was I said, and I had a few gay fans to who wanted to fuck The Body. 

‘I bet you tried to sell your ass too?’ 

Rosa, decorum please. 

He used to make wise cracks. 

‘I bet you’re got a tight ass under those baggy black pants.’ 

Then he’d pat my ass. 

He was the manager and could get away with shit like that. 

It was before PCs crept into the workplace. 

I played it up to keep my job and the creep got his money’s worth by the occasional grope. 

It’s how things worked in hospitality back then. 

 Now I had become that man, the lurch, I was the sleaze bag with the love handles and gut that wanted to play touch the fucking floor. Rosa chuckled on the end of the line. 

‘You still got me,’ she says. 

Huh, and isn’t everyone jealous? 

‘Betsy really wants you bad,’ she says. 

She’s talking about her Burmese friend who has piles. 

Betsy visits Rosa most days. 

They eat fish and chips from Ali’s, a fish and chip shop across the road. 

Rosa used to eat Red Rooster until they closed it down over two decades ago. 

Each day goes like this: 

‘Betsy is so cheap; she never pays her half.’ 

Other days it goes like this: 

‘She paid her half. She’s a good girl.’ 

A 72-year-old girl, she looks good for her age. 

Some days Rosa doesn’t remember what she ate, if it was fish and chips for bread and eggs. 

It’s her right to be forgetful and to enjoy the now. 

Sometimes I see she has left the element on the stove. 

I turn it off. 

‘Don’t tell my brother,’ she says, ‘he’ll send me to a nursing home.’ 

I haven’t told him yet. 

But just imagine if her house burnt down. 

Could I live with it? 

No I couldn’t, if I didn’t tell her brother that sometimes she leaves the element on. 

What if she puts her hand on it and burns herself? 

So far it hasn’t happened yet. Heaven forbids. 

  

Jesus Christ is a Nigger is an interesting song I found on YouTube.  

It was my weapon against Faith’s singing. 

She had tested the waters and realised if she sang, I wouldn’t complain. 

When she was sleeping in Bongo’s room, I told her not to sing. And if she did, I banged really hard on her door. 

But now that she had moved rooms and Bongo wasn’t so timid, she started singing. 

An hour out in the kitchen, she’d be singing Amazing Graces. 

Then back to her room for some voodooing for another six hours. 

What made matters worse, she now had a speaker. 

Her Samsung phone was loud enough. 

Now she had a little ghetto blaster. 

Faith, from Kenya, the student of International Studies at Edith Cowan University, had arrived. 

And I wasn’t in a position to tell her to shut up. 

She had the power, and she would show me. 

‘You hate niggas, don’t you?’ 

She said the 

nigga word, not me. 

Just hearing it disgusted me. 

Black stained turds, I found that just as offensive. 

‘Faith,’ I said, ‘when I took a shit this morning, my turd was lighter than your skin colour. Now you aren’t going to tell me what I just said was racist?’ 

  

Excessive weight. That should be a thing of the past. Can’t deny it. Great feeling on it. I’m more talkative, more positive. It’s so subtle. But it lasts forever.’ -- Duromine Diaries, Vanya Vetto. 

  

Jodric has fallen from grace. 

He had a tenuous position on the rock ledge. 

Nowhere to go up and a long fall down. 

He had impressed me over the years with his poetry. 

There’s his poetry and nothing else. 

That’s Cedric the self-centred prick. 

He knows how to write.  

His ideas are imaginative. 

And he promised to help me out. 

‘Not just a spell check edits?’ 

No no no, he began to stutter, he really wanted to show that he was being sincere. 

Now what did he promise? 

Can’t remember. 

And what did he produce? 

A spell check of 70 percent of the manuscript. 

So what does that mean? 

It means it’s time to send the fucker up. 

Duromine, Duromine. 

Cedric got really clever and thought he’d call Duromine ‘Duromine’. 

Then he changed duromine for Duromine, on his word file. 

Instantly the name changed. 

That was his edit. 

That was his party trick. 

I don’t think he even did a spell check. 

I found errors on the first page when I uploaded the file on Amazon. 

If a poet from Bangkok befriends you, allows you into his life, lets you call him up a few times, be warned, he’s about to scam you. 

 He’s a little cunt that has contributed nothing towards this narrative. 

He ripped me off. 

I hate his fucking guts. 

He’s a two-faced cunt. 

A has been. 

A parasite. 

He never ever intended to return the loan. 

That was just part of his elaborate plot of scamming. 

When I asked him for the cash back, he got all defensive. 

‘What about the editing I’ve already done?’ 

No problems.  

All it was was a spell check. 

And besides, I’ve spent months working for free for you cunt. 

‘Oh that doesn’t count.’  

Rot and die with your crackhead whores. 

You are a spent force. 

Even I know that.  

He’s fucked my text up. 

Duromine. 

Now where the fuck did, he come up with that idea? 

Was it a reference to groping crackhead whores? 

It has nothing to do with the Duromine, and even I know that. 

Bongo is king.  

He’s a retard.   

I’ll blast some music soon.   

I must be careful because Faith isn’t shy about knocking on my door  

 and telling me to turn down my music.  

She’s confronted me a few times early in the morning in the kitchen.   

She’s not only a freeloader but a nasty freeloader.   

‘I will make you die a slow death, that is certain, you’ll see.’  

Threats, threats and more of them.   

Wish the Africans would just fuck off back to Africa.   

They are a vein, flashy and shallow race of people.   

Didn’t snack last night.   

My dinner was not only healthy but satisfying.   

You are what you eat.   

I had six slices of bread stacked with goodness.   

It filled me up.   

It was balanced.   

Low in carbohydrates.   

Didn’t feel fat and bloated after eating it.   

Got my tax back today.  

Medicare levy ate into it.   

But I’m not about to complain.   

Some are better than nothing.  

I just wanted to wake up early.   

The bitch is usually awake by 6 am, doing her nun thing.   

Congo Bongo also reads a bible.   

Surprised he can read, he’s such a dumb fuck.   

Religion is holding back the blacks.  

God will keep on slaughtering them.   

Yes, god is listening and he’s still slaughtering you.  

The Africans just don’t get it that praying will not protect you from  

 a wild primitive slashing a machete in front of your face.  

Faith thinks she prayed herself out of homelessness.   

I just think she was lucky.  

Bongo has a reputation for handing out cash to abos and other African sluts.  

Some of them were quite hot too.   

Faith is just another slut he’s decided to pay.   

It’s Bongo’s way of atonement for killing his fellow Africans in the Congo.   

He once brought in a Vietnamese hooker, a heroin addict, for a few days.   

Trang, our landlord, wasn’t very impressed.   

That’s Bongo for you.   

Always trying to alleviate his loneliness.  

I assert my right to hate.  

‘Stay positive.’   

Up to a point.   

Being positive means you have no right to be negative.   

It’s censorship.  

It’s another way of saying, I don’t like what you are saying.   

‘Keep positive.’   

Yeah, right.   

I popped the pill at 6 am.  

  

Don’t be lazy. Don’t let Congo Bongo intimidate you.   

‘You ask anyone who I am outside.’   

I don’t need to.   

I saw you at the Muslim grocery store handing over cash to that dodgy Afghan.   

You are a drug dealer.   

How else can you support Faith on the low income of welfare support.   

I am tired but now’s the time to test the potency of the pill within a four-hour time frame.   

Let’s see if the walk is like The Million Dollar Man.   

I’ve been having a few of these Lee Major moments.   

And I love it.   

Need to buy some vape coils.   

Got my tax return.   

Time to keep on top of not smoking.   

It costs me money.   

But as much as I spent on cigarettes per week.   

Thanks Barry.   

You helped me quit smoking.   

You ripped me off selling tobacco, but you also did me a   

good turn by sending me the vaping machine.   

It works.   

It worked.   

Now time to get back to the job at hand, of losing weight.   

I’m having a mini crash.  

That’s ok.  

I don’t want to be invincible all the time.   

I don’t mind being vulnerable.   

I feel sleepy.  

Strange, hey!  

You can’t miss out on sleep.   

That’s what my body is telling me.   

It’s still early days.   

Duromine has double and triple kick-ins.   

Just slept three hours.  

Three hours of speed you ask.  

I was tired.  

Had ear plugs in and loud sleeping music.  

A wank as well, totally relieved all the pent-up aggression.  

Pissed a hell of a lot in my bucket.   

So the pill must still be working.   

Feel like I need crap.   

This pill is doing things that it shouldn’t.   

Falling asleep on it after only just taking it.   

Had a mandarin and a banana, to settle my stomach.  

Now back onto coffee, finishing off what was left in my cup.   

Who knows, it might kick it in again.  

Faith is around.   

I can hear her singing.  

Bongo isn’t slamming doors.   

He could be, but my ears were plugged.  

It’s Wednesday.  

I’ve been on the pills since last Friday.   

Wow, what a week, is all I can say.  

I’m having doubts.  

Curiosity killed the cat.   

Ginger fluff ball is playing outside my room.   

It does bring me delight.   

I threw a can of tuna in the garden yesterday.  

Hope fluff ball found it and ate it.   

I hate wastage.  

I have my doubts, as I was saying.   

Is this pill only getting me high and tricking me into losing weight?  

  

Does it work on some kind of voodoo principle?   

instilling me with superpowers, that not only make me fly faster than a  

 speeding bullet but also help me shed vast amounts of fat that mere   

mortals would only dream of.  

We’ll see.   

Looked at my tired old tits, that sagged.   

The sag line is disappearing as I give my chest a lift from thousands of bench presses.  

I must have done a thousand of them yesterday.  

No wonder I’m feeling tired.  

I think I’m 24 again.   

Surprised my body didn’t curl up and die in a heap.   

The dog is playing hard to get.  

‘Thanks for being quiet.’  

He’s got bags and other junk outside his room.  

In his eyes, he’s perfect.   

He won the lottery.   

Left a refugee camp.  

And is now set up for life in Australia.   

How could he do wrong?  

It’s inconceivable.   

Is he picking up on my evil vibes?   

I asked him if it rained.   

I heard rain while taking a second crap.   

‘I don’t know,’ he said in perfect English.   

He’s not playing the dumb primitive who is here to entertain the whites.   

He’s reversed the role.   

Reminds me of that big African at the backpackers.   

A territorial cunt who fucked all the white chicks.   

If you got in his way, he wasn’t shy to let you know.  

He was another crappy specimen of Africa.   

I rode out the tempest.   

I’m glad I did.   

I can’t afford a run in with the black dog.   

He’s not into constructive dialogue.   

He’s changed since that evil bitch has been here.   

It’s as if she’s given him some pride in black power.   

He used to be so compliant.   

Still a sly dog.   

Now he’s a cocky dog.   

The best thing for a cocky dog is a bullet.   

Put it out of its misery.  The Duromine Diaries, Vanya Vetto 

 

‘Hay Bongo is awake.  

I really do like him.   

He’s been wonderful putting up with me.   

The Vietnamese was just a cunt.   

I’m a born optimist.   

Imagine how optimistic I’ll be if I weigh 20 kilograms less’. --The Duromine Diaries, Vanya Vetto. 

 

Just hit by a steam train.   

Had another shit.   

Cleaned up my table.   

Now walking like a cripple.   

Just when I thought I had walked Duromine out of my system, she resurfaces.   

How I know is because the techno music sounds so fucking wonderful.  

A solid three hour walk later, I was feeling mellow.   

Now Duromine is showing up for the evening.   

Hey, not complaining.   

Was a great walk.  

Weighed myself at the chemist, still one ten.   

I was hoping for one nine. That’s one hundred and nine.   

It was since the diarrhea went that I put on the weight.   

Diarrhea helps me maintain my weight.  

It cleared up a little after I left the last job.  

This explains why I’ve put on weight.   

I miss having the runs, it’s a great way to maintain your weight.   

How do I get diarrhea?  

Can anyone help?  

Chronic fatigue.  

Been a good day walking.   

Still got that growth on balls.   

Must be a rash.   

It will go away.  

Least of my worries.  

I’m in Duromine limbo.   

It’s taken up residence.   

Dark thoughts of addiction.   

Can’t deny I was a downer kid.   

Took it to sleep.   

Took it mostly for kicks.   

But I’m taking Duromine for my health.  

Not like I can get unlimited access to it over the counter.   

I'd be just as happy to be off it.  

Let's see what magic the pill can produce in the next week.   

I think the walking will kick-start the fat burning.   

If I can lose another two kilos, I’ll be happy.   

The long walks are really kicking my metabolism.   

Take it easy.   

You have done better than most in the first week.   

So don’t get hung up on numbers.  

Eat well, live well and lose weight.   

Day eight.  

Didn’t binge eat last night.   

Day eight I’m a seasoned user now.  

Slept from 11 to 12.  

Then I watched some movies and continued my sleep.  

Everything has changed.   

I haven’t dropped much weight.  

It was 106, the lowest weight at the peak of summer.   

Let's aim for 99 at the peak of winter.  

I’m an optimist.  

Yesterday was a watershed.  

I don’t know why.  

It’s like I’m a member now.   

Eight days.  

Day eight.  

When I get back to 106, I’ll be feeling much better.   

Obesity is a disease.  

Remember that.  

You are doing this to save your life.   

85.  

That’s your ideal weight.  

For my height, the ideal weight is 74 kgs.  

Is it possible?   

It sure is.  

I need a coffee.  

Only one.   

I feel better.   

Don’t know why.   

The long walks are kicking things in.  

I’m back on Facebook listening to Wolf Mask.  

He’s a real fucking idiot.  

In the end, I just scrolled past him. 

He was going to fall, big time. 

Think he had an audience of one. 

Soon he’d have an audience of zero. 

If you act like an assole you’ll get the respect of one. 

Yesterday the black dog came to visit me.  

 

I WAS ATTACKED in the workplace. 

We had a nickname for him.  

Lee Kuan Fucking Yew. 

I put on a few kilograms and put the bite on my doctor. 

‘Duromine, or bust,’ I said. 

It did sound convincing. 

I had put on a couple of kilos.  

It had nothing to do with Post Distress Disorder. 

The truth was I packed on the pounds from drinking two litres of milk a day.  

God bless dairy products. 

It did the trick. 

I was obese anyway. 

Even I could see that.  

Borderline diabetes, a hernia ready to explode and a bad knee, 

I was a prime candidate for losing weight. 

Being a newcomer to dieting, I only wanted to do it once. 

And get it right. 

I didn’t know anything about Duromine.  

So the doctor prescribed one script for 30 milligrams. 

I was on my way. 

Dieting here we come.  

A six pack would follow.  

All I have to do is take the pill and watch the pounds peel off. 

I had been walking all year. 

The only time I got down to 107 was when I had diarrhea. 

Now I was 114. 

My weight increase began about the time I started working for Lee Kuan Fucking Yew. 

For two months he ran me into the ground.  

My body responded by putting on weight.  

He made me feel like a useless piece of shit. 

If only he knew he’d be funding my weight loss.  

But I won’t get ahead of myself. 

Every crossroad and by road leads to Lee Kuan Fucking Yew. 

I should really dedicate this book to him. 

Without him king hitting me in the workplace, I’d still be sitting on 112 kilos  

and walking for an hour every evening.  

If I told you I was two digits, sitting on 99 kilos, you wouldn’t believe me.  

I wouldn’t believe it if you told me this three months ago.  

Duromine isn’t for everybody. 

Losing weight is just plain hard work. 

But if you can’t get it up and even the sight of yourself scares you in the mirror,  

it’s time to take action.  

And that’s just what I did.  

I was working with a Macedonian selling Telco. 

‘The slanty eyed cunt.’  

He just didn’t like Lee Kuan Fucking Yew one bit. 

He was a sales rep. 

Over time I’d won his confidence. 

A real lovely man, in the end I cracked his code  

and when he saw the real me, I couldn’t do wrong in his eyes. 

I’m a wog boy at heart. 

‘Why do you let him stomp all over you?’ 

You’ll see very soon. 

There is a methodology in how I work. 

Give someone enough rope, they’ll eventually hang themselves in ecstasy. 

In the end, I was working as little as possible. 

This job was a sinking ship. 

The sales rep had been cheated two thousand dollars by the chink. 

‘And I’ll get my money’s worth somehow,’ he said,  

and went to the boss’s desk and put the phone down his crutch and rubbed it up deep inside his bum cheeks. 

‘That’s five dollars off the debt,’ he said. 

That day I was laughing uncontrollably. 

Lee Kuan Fucking Yew has been with Commander for fifteen years  

and doesn’t like anyone disrespecting him. 

He knew my laughing outbursts were about him, 

but he couldn’t pinpoint it. 

So, he did only what he could do, get the situation back into  

control by king hitting me in the parking lot. 

‘Get all you can from the creep, get a police report,  

he’s left himself wide open.’  

And I did just that. 

‘I’m not a bad guy,’ said Mr. Telco, who asked me over to his desk, about forty minutes after the king hit me. 

He wanted to show me an apartment which he thought I should buy. 

I was going to work for Lee Kuan Fucking Yew for the rest of my life, he said. 

He had already given me that assurance, after his employee of  

fifteen years lost her house from a fire without insurance.  

He was moving her along before the corpse had retained room temperature.  

She was nearly sixty-five, very matronly and Hungarian born. 

This showed me what Lee Kuan Fucking Yew was capable of. 

Bring it on, I thought, as I began to ham up the situation. 

I nearly got crushed by two stages. 

I was in the middle and they were being pushed on wheels for joining.  

A close call.  

Knocked the wind out of me.  

What the fuck.  

I set up international concerts. 

It was U2’s Joshua Tree concert. 

Lee Kuan Fucking Yew’s push was soft and effete. 

But boy did I ham it up.  

Past injuries, new injuries, fuck and the phycological damage.  

And Hollywood actors think they are only capable of winning Oscars. 

So that’s a bit of background. 

Not long after he pushed me, he must have been feeling bad. 

‘Come over here.’  

He always called me over to his desk for pep talks. 

He did the talking down when I was sitting at my desk. 

‘This apartment could be yours,’ he said. 

Mm, yes it could be. 

‘Well you’ll be working for me for life, so it’s very much in the realms of can do.’  

Mm, I muttered, trying to sound grateful. 

He was the best bullshitter under the sun. 

‘I’m old school,’ he said when I first met him. 

I didn’t even really want the job. 

It’s that he insisted I see him. 

He had no idea where our working relationship would take us. 

I love good sport like the best of them, I thought, a 

as I pretended to show interest in the apartment, he was showing me for sale.  

‘You are kind and merciful,’ I eventually said,  

hamming it up a bit with this tag on,  

‘you only meet one Lee Kuan Fucking Yew in a lifetime.’ 

From the look on his face, he couldn’t decide if I was taking the piss out of him or being sincere.  

‘And who is Lee Kuan Fucking Yew anyway?’ he asked.  

I was being sincere.  

I was going to screw him for all he was worth. 

Apparently, he owned seven properties and an office block.  

At least that was something to work with.  

Listen, if you may, I liked LT. 

He was a fucking crook covering up with respectability of owning his own  

Telco Business Centre. 

‘Listen,’ he would say over the phone in the morning to his clients,  

’I think you have been downloading too much porn.’ 

Of course, he was only joking. 

I heard him use that line at least three times since I was working in his claustrophobic office in an apartment block, which he apparently owned. 

He could never afford to buy that, let alone seven houses and another office block, by selling mobile plans. 

He exuded of crookery. 

He was a thief, a con man, a liar, a survivor and most likely a closet faggot.  

He was a condescending little prick. 

I only liked his money. 

And his coffee. 

He was proud of his little espresso coffee machine. 

Nescafe is better, but I won’t say no to a pod coffee. 

So I drank as much as I could, and more. 

He was paying for it and I was getting him leads. 

As the weeks went by, his complaints got louder. 

I just drank more coffee. 

At this rate he’d bend or break.  

And I wasn’t going to fuck him in the toilet if you know what I mean.  

Even though he asked me to clean up some pubis hair on the floor. 

I wasn’t falling for that trick. 

I’m an old hand at telemarketing.  

I know all the tricks of the trade. 

I can make a weak lead stand up strong with a hard on. 

I don’t know what to call him. 

The case is still unfolding.  

He doesn’t know it, but his assault charges just got escalated to  

obstruction of justice and lying to police. 

‘He pestered me to write up a fake witness report,’ said the Macedonian  

sales rep. 

I was glad to have his loyalty. 

Old Mr. Telco loved putting words into other people’s mouths. 

‘Awake to that game a long time ago,’ said the sales rep, 

 when I asked him, he had told Mr. Old School that I was vaping most of the time. 

‘Never said such a thing,’ he said.  

It was us against him and we had formed a strong alliance  

over the two months.  

Don’t hear or see him. 

Last I heard from him, he was having an operation. 

I’d say he’s left Mr. Old School.  

I never got my commission for sales. 

‘If you don’t trust me, then you can fuck off.’  

That set off Mr. Old School when earlier on I asked him for my commission. 

It was a small ‘set him off.’  

The bigger ones were to come. 

‘I’m taking fifty dollars out of your salary for the coffee.’  

Go for it, you thieving cunt, like how you cut my salary by five dollars an hour. 

Look at the bigger picture. 

Do you think you can pin him for something bigger? 

He didn’t trust me.  

One day he checked my bag to make sure I hadn’t stolen his coffee pods. 

I only drink cheap instant coffee at home. 

Two months of Mr. Old School was enough to write a book on him. 

A lot went down. 

Sales reps need telemarketers. 

Especially in a time of a pandemic. 

I had it pretty easy. 

No face appointments, so the five leads a day were easy work. 

And not even qualified.  

Just a follow up phone call. 

But back to the diet. 

All this shit with Mr. Old School happened in May. 

It’s now nearly October and I haven’t seen any compensation. 

The police never got back to me when I sent them supporting evidence. 

But that’s all just periphery shit. 

On the main stage is my weight loss program. 

You’ll see some same players who have been there for the ride since it began. 

Like Andy, the Vietnamese chemist, and his boss Danial, 

Mr. Insane in the Ukraine.  

Or my doctor, Dr. Kilaji, whose medical report initially allowed the police to press charges against Mr. Old School. 

Then there is Niaz, part owner with Danial of the main branch I do all my shopping. 

He has his other branch in the Health Provider district, where I see my dentist, my physio and for a brief time, my Fijian Doctor, of Indian descent. 

I also would go to Daya Scan, for scans and ultrasounds.  

Just up the road is where Wayne lives.  

He got a triple bypass recently and the guy I was staying with who held me hostage is a ten-percenter abo. 

On Duromine, I fear no one. 

If only Mr.-I-am-Only-the-Driver could see me now. 

I’m a certified meth head.  

And I buy it legally. 

And as Andy says it’s not addictive, ‘doesn’t draw upon dopamine supplies.’  

Twice I’ve quit and twice I’ve got back on it. 

I haven’t reached my ideal weight. 

I’ve been off it for two days over the last ten weeks, and I didn’t even get a headache off it.  

I dreamt that Mr. Old School came to visit me. 

I told Andy about how he tried to book an appointment with a wealthy Vietnamese client. 

He spent an hour on the phone bragging about how good he was, how he used to build apartments funded with Triad cash. 

I’ve lost 15 kilograms. 

I’m plateauing.  

I’ve jumped ahead here. 

Where is the suspense? 

I need to continue the treatment, said Andy.  

He doesn’t want me wasting all the good work.  

So I popped another 30 milligrams that evening. 

We all need support. 

My chemists want to see a lean and mean version of myself. 

I want to see a lean mean version of myself. 

Three laxatives later, it was a fine shit. 

Too think and leaky to be of any discomfort. 

I told my trainers at the gym I’m off Duromine. 

‘Why do you tell people you are on Duromine?’ asked my doctor. 

Because I’m writing a book. 

He seemed pleased with that answer.  

It forces people to judge me. 

Then I can judge them back accordingly. 

No, no, that’s not my intention. 

I just want tension. 

You’d be surprised who are on diet pills. 

More so than ever with Instagram perfection, we are striving to look better ourselves. 

And Duromine is our filter, touching up the love handles, taking out the bloating in the face and erasing the double chin forever. 

 

I HAVE MUSCLE memory.   

I trained in weights, swam and ran, in my early twenties.   

But as soon as I started traveling, I couldn’t be bothered training.   

Fast forward over two decades, and this train wreck has arrived.   

It’s going to take some panel beating, some good drugs and discipline, but I think we'll get there.   

Me, Myself and I are very disciplined that way.   

And if we don't get there, it's been great being fucked up for the past four months on lab grade crack.  

I’m hitting the weights big time.   

I have a gym membership.   

I’m on track to finding the new and better me.   

Right?   

As I said, I’m hitting the weights, getting physiotherapy and getting my teeth done.   

A trifecta you may ask.   

I recently got whiplash after being king hit in the workplace.   

Rosa knows all this.   

She is my neighbour.   

I tell her everything.   

She’s a good listener.   

A widow and no spring chicken, Rosa was born in the late 1940’s and refuses to give up the ghost.   

‘What do you mean, ‘give up the ghost,’ says Rosa as a mock form of admonishment.   

I tell Rosa that I’m sure Big Corporations have been lacing my food with Estrogen.   

Before I started the diet, I continued, ‘I was wearing training bras.’    

I pull up my shirt and show her the stain lines.   

‘They aren’t stained lines,’ says Rosa, ‘it’s where the training bra has rubbed on your nipples.’   

Rosa has a kinky side and confirms it with a wink and a smile exposing her hybrid of lower false teeth and jagged and jutting upper yellowish teeth.    

‘Only fucking with you.’   

Rosa suggests I get on with the narrative.   

‘How about you fast forward it nearly four months,’ she says.    

That can easily be done, I say.   

But what about the previous four months, we just can’t skip it, can we?   

‘All will be revealed in the future narrative, which when you think about it, is the present narrative.’    

Rosa is so intuitive, sometimes and she’s full of good old fashion common sense.   

‘Not bad for a girl who never went to school?’   

Not bad at all Rosa.   

 Rosa says don’t get too skinny.   

‘People will think you are a wimp.’   

I just like the idea of a total make over.   

Losing weight is a big one.   

Getting teeth done, another one.   

Confidence, maybe I have too much of it.   

Surely, I must be bipolar.    

Is there good medication for that shit?   

Once I get those two root canals finished, I might look at the crowns the dentist is offering.   

What if you break a tooth getting a crown off, I asked my dentist?   

He just wouldn’t do something so silly like that.   

He’s almost offended by the question.   

‘Good question,’ he said, and nothing else was explored.   

I suppose if I can cough up the $15 grand, he’ll talk teeth, aesthetics, you fucking name it.    

Until then, I should just continue acting the crack head that I am.   

I’m not a crackhead and never was. 

The idea was first suggested by Wolf Mask, a burnt-out MIA hunter who could speaks an Asian language, whoopy fucking dooo. 

Then Cedric, who was too lazy to edit so he went for the guilt trip. 

He made out that I had mental issues. 

That I was unsound. 

That I was unreasonable. 

As to Wolf Mask, he kicked me off his show so many times that I started enjoying the humiliation. 

He did what he could to make me feel like a useless piece of shit. 

But Cedric, who goes by the name of Jodric, who goes by the name of John Gartland, he was the party pooper. 

He brought on my anxiety. 

I actually started believing his shit in the end. 

He’s a manipulating bastard of the dark arts. 

He won’t reveal his face. 

He’s aged. 

He’s no longer a spring chicken. 

His hair is grey. 

He called me a druggie. 

I told him I had weight issues. 

I was taking it for my health. 

He didn’t care. 

This is coming from a guy off his head on speed and ketamine from a smoking session at the Star of Love in Patpong, who knocks himself unconscious outside his apartment. 

His wife finds him and brings him up to his room. He writes a poem about it and isn’t it all just fine and dandy. 

Now who’s the junkie? 

You don’t get any of this kind of amnesia shit on Gropamine. 

So the pressure was coming from all sides. 

I was even accused of being a crackhead trying to score drugs at a medical clinic. 

It’s been documented somewhere. 

Everything has been documented. 

The problem is I don’t know where to find it. 

I empathize with larger people.  

We are so superficial, judging people on their waistline.  

And we let those ass-wipes get away with it.  

It can ruin a person’s self-esteem.  

But not with Duromine. It’s the friend of the fat guy.  

It understands.  

It sympathizes.  

It nurtures.  

It gives energy where there was none.  

It creates happiness.  

It makes music sound good.  

It helps us focus on tasks.  

It helps us clean the house.  

It helps us wash our clothes. 

It gives hope beyond hope.  

The sneaky bugger.  

It’s crept up on me.  

It’s still pumping rich in my veins.  

It’s suppressing my appetite.  

Oh dear Duromine, you are such a flirt. None of this seven-day benders and wanking all the time.  

This drug has class. 

Respect it and it may respect you. -- The Duromine Diaries, Vanya Vetto. 

 

Maybe Cedric was right, these later diary entries sound like the rants of someone on top notch speed. 

 

I’m pushing hard. 

Muscles are being worked. 

My trainers are pushing me. 

I’m paying for results.  

Running and riding.  

I’m working on my cardio.  

I miss my long walks. 

But I need to give knees a fighting chance. 

Wear and tear of long walks and risk of disturbing left knee on anything raised on the footpath, is mitigated in the gym’s-controlled environment. 

God bless, Duromine 30 mgs is paying me a visit. 

Took it at 4 am. Six hours later, it’s showing its sleepy head.  

Two months as of today on Duromine.  

My life will never be the same. 

A lifestyle choice. 

The bitch is singing. 

Shameless. 

I hate her even more. 

Never a moment of rest here.  

As I write this, I’m wearing ear plugs, noise cancelling headsets and have the music turned up loud to filter the Africans. 

She drives me out of the house. 

I walk longer distances to avoid her.  

She’s taken over the place.  

And Bongo’s sickening smell from his room is an odorous attack.  

African psychological warfare.  

I might take headphones off and blast then with the super speaker. 

I slammed the door about six am.  

It felt liberating that I might have woken up the dirty face stains. 

I will fuck off soon.  

I can’t stand being around that Kenyan bitch.  

She’s my enemy.  

She came here to study an MBA in business.  

Now she’s into full time voodoo.  

Primitive.  

Feeling better. 

Headphones broken. 

It just cracked 

Happened when the whore was in kitchen. 

Taped it up. 

Last night I dropped my headset in a pot full of water that Faith left in the sink.  

The headphones were soaked in water. 

She is doing magic on me. 

I’m sure of that.  

I have images of going in her room and beating the shit out of her.  

Thought crime, right? 

Just to let her know who is boss. 

She knows the law is on her side. 

I suspect she’s an illegal. 

Do I report her for the third time? 

No, no and I won’t punch her out. 

‘How do you know if you got dirt on you face?’ 

That’s one of the most hard-hitting questions to ask an African. 

Hit them where it hurts most.  

God’s curse. 

Primitives. 

Starvation, genocide, AIDS, Ebola, you name it. 

That’s Africans.  

Why is the West trying to help them dig wells? 

For fucks sake, the great pyramids of Egypt are on the same fucking continent. They must have possessed construction skills at some point. 

Now I’m sweeping up for the retards. 

That’s progress. 

Progress.  

 

CONGO BONGO THREATENED to cut my head if I ever talked about  

throwing his rubbish out again. 

 The police, who I called up, sided with him. 

 Trang the Vietnamese landlady told the police I always complained, and I was messy. 

 Faith didn’t think it strange that someone was going to get their  

head cut off. 

That it was my head, even interested her less. 

I’m living on borrowed time. 

 The prophecy nearly came to pass 

 I’m the outsider in my own country. 

 Being white and born here is a curse.  

 

THE AFRICANS SERVED their purpose.  

All bitching aside, I lost weight.  

Thanks to Faith, for keeping me away from the household. 

     And Congo Bongo, for instilling the fear in me and motivating me to work out longer and harder. I always made sure I came home early in the morning, sometime after midnight, knowing I may avoid either the Africans and avoid a confrontation which could either get me boiled in water or have my head chopped off.  

 

A PREVIEW 

 

The Duromine Diaries by Vanya Vetto.  

 

CHAPTER ONE 

We care about our fat.  

We wear it with comfort.  

We just don’t want to admit that we are fat. 

That would be disrespectful to our fat, right? 

Tubby. 

Love handles and all. 

It just creeped up on me. 

One day, doing ok.  

The next day, the gut wanted to take a dive below my cock line. 

If you are a guy, you know what I’m talking about. 

If you are a woman, Houston, we have a problem. 

First step to overcoming a problem is facing up to it. 

I am wearing 3 by large shirts. 

That’s three sizes too big.  

Three? 

Yes, sometimes even wore four. 

Given, a bit too big even for me. 

So I’m no stranger to wearing tents. 

I really thought the sizes were made for an Asian frame, not a large Caucasian, since they were made in China.   

That’s how I justified wearing those big shirts. 

Besides, they didn’t cut into me and make me look ridiculously gay. 

That’s how I look in large shirts. 

Too tight, too clingy, obviously I’m overweight. 

Denial, denial.  

Have no fear, Mommy’s Little Helper is here.  

Without it, I’d have Buckley’s hope of losing weight 

With it, I can at least be a player. 

It comes through with its promise.  

She’s dependable like that.  

Before you know it, people will look at your differently.  

An atmosphere of confidence will shield you from deadly radiation and self-doubt. 

You might even eye up a chick who is half your age and feel you have a chance. 

That kind of confidence is a game changer.  

It’s virility in a pill.  

Maybe misguided confidence. 

But no one cares.  

They are too busy thinking about what to cook for their next meal.  

On Mommy’s Little Helper, who thinks about food? 

Nearly three month’s sucking from her teat, not only am I addicted to her milk,  

I feel I have a handle on her.  

Trial and error.  

I’ll try and score some more of her soon.  

But for now, best to lay low for a while. 

Maybe the damage is already done. 

Who gives a flying fuck?  

Still lots of great work to do. 

More pounds to shred. 

More weights to lift.  

I’m at a weight where whatever extra weight I lose, will come off effortlessly.  

I know it sounds odd, but once you start feeling good about yourself, everything else falls into place.  

‘Don’t look at the scale every day,’ said my doctor. 

What he meant was, get fucked up and enjoy the tunes watching Japanese soft porn.  

I love my doctor.  

Duromine.  

      Yes, that’s Mommy’s Little Helper. 

My darling.  

     Two hours later, I can say she’s joining me for a morning coffee. 

What a way to lose weight.  

Nina.  

She’s Trang’s stepsister.  

Trang is my land lady, a widow with five children, one out of the nest. 

 

Nina has one son, David, who is about six. 

He’s really smart and always remembers my name. 

He says that his mother is 44 years old. 

All I can say is that she is a MILF that I’m never going to fuck. 

That’s what the makes the thought of it so appealing.  

 

I met Nina on the landing last night and paid her rent. 

She says in Vietnam she used to be a teacher.  

She’s growing on me.  

She’s a real sexy number. 

Her smile is infectious when she talks to me.  

I hope she has noticed my slimming down. 

She has a son.  

He’s a smart boy.  

Nina does nails.  

She was out of work for a while with Coved lock down.  

I see G-strings hung up outside.  

I hope she wears them.  

I’d love to see her in a pink number.  

She’s lovely to talk to.  

I think she needs a good fucking. 

Her English is better than Trang’s.  

They are a lovely family. 

Day six.  

Yes indeed. 

I should really go for an early walk. 

Greet the day.  

Late in the afternoon, a rainbow arched across the sky.  

It was a sign.  

Great things were coming my way.  

Perth was growing on me.  

In winter it’s the most delightful time.  

‘Spring will be coming soon,’ said a well-dressed older man, with an umbrella and a British accent.  

‘I don’t want to talk about Spring when I’m enjoying Winter so much.’  

He was enamoured with the cool crisp day too.  

‘You have the rest of a great day,’ he said, ever so polite. 

I continued my walk, trying to keep up with Duromine.  

Day six, how different will it be to day 16. 

I want to wake up and take the pill.  

I don’t want to sleep.  

That’s the allure of Duromine.  

I’m feeling lighter. 

I can’t deny it.  

But I still have lots of hard work ahead of me.  

Don’t be complacent.  

 

I go to see Rosa most days. 

She is my neighbour and only offline friend. 

We got close once I started taking diet pills. 

My inhibitions released; I had become a long talker. 

Rosa loved that. 

At last, I was communicating with her and not using pidgin English. 

‘People think because I’m from  

Some weeks, I might not see her. 

Other weeks, I’m seeing her every day. 

 

It all depends on my moods. 

Rosa is 81 years old.  

Winter tried to take her out, but Rosa refused to fall. 

 

I’ve known her for over two years. 

She has become a much-needed ally. 

On Duromine, I’ve seen who she really is. 

Off Duromine, I’m a mean bastard. 

 

Rosa is one hell of a woman. 

She isn’t a fako like most of us. 

If she likes you, she’ll stand thick or think for you. 

Old traditional values live with Rosa. 

I’m afraid they’ll die out when she dies. 

‘No,’ she says, ‘you’ll carry the flame of those values.’ 

Rosa never said that but it’s what she means. 

 

She doesn’t do internet, mobiles, Facebook, anything digital. 

For that very reason, Rosa has managed to keep a grip on reality where most have lost it to the mob hysteria.  

Rosa is a tonic, both for the body and the soul. 

 

The Africans drove me away from Rosa. 

The Vietnamese landlady drove me from Rosa. 

The police drove me from Rosa. 

I think Rosa is better off without me. 

I’m sure behind my back she’s complaining about the crack head neighbour. 

But that doesn’t add up. 

When the chips are down, Rosa is always there. 

What a sweat heart. 

She really must like me. 

 

I know I really like her. 

I learn more and more about her. 

She thrives on the wicked and absurd.  

At her age, there is no time for airs. 

She only has time for straight entertaining shooters. 

‘Who knows what tomorrow will bring?’ 

Rosa is living every day to her fullest. 

But most of it is spent alone. 

Her diet is abysmal. 

Her network really isn’t working for her. 

But she’s getting by. 

She could get better by. 

But Rosa is a stoic. 

Hard before life is no stranger to her. 

She has played maid for generations of children, ‘washing their clothes.’  

Hand washing too. 

Her hands are strong.  

From years of hard work at the Guinness factory. 

‘My job was to put on the labels, making sure they were straight.’  

What brought Rosa from a repetitive blue-collar job in Kuala Lumpur to a middle-class suburb in Perth overran by Africans looking at Africanising the area, is worth investigating.  

 

Christmas Island was her last location before she relocated here with her husband Peter in 1984. 

Peter is long dead and Rosa is struggling daily as age pulls her closer to her grave. 

Rosa isn’t giving up any time soon. 

She is stronger than she lets on and tenacious as fuck. 

I’ve witnessed it myself. 

She’ll do anything to stay away from a nursing home, even recruiting her insane neighbour to help out with the Rosa cause. 

I joined up willingly.  

She just got CCTV cameras installed in her house by her brother.  

I don’t like being monitored.  

Feel a bit uneasy about it.  

But good for Rosa, if she falls, her brother who is monitoring her, will at least know. 

Rosa always complains about Beth, a Burmese who lives nearby, as being a tightwad.  

Beggars can’t be choosers.  

I think Rosa has enough friends to keep her busy. 

It’s Wednesday, pray night for Rosa.  

I’d like to see her after I’ve lost some weight. 

See what her response is.  

I bitch too much about the Africans.  

‘Black ass.’  

Rosa has a wicked sense of humour and is always giving me sound advice. 

But this mission I’m on is a solitary one.  

She’ll know that.  

I showed her the pills the day I got them from the chemist.  

She wished me the best of luck. 

She knows I need to lose weight so my knee can have a fighting chance of repairing itself. 

Besides, I think Rosa enjoys a lighter and trimmer me. 

 

Orders are all unordered.  

But the outcome was very ordered. 

Each strike, contributed to me being batted out, wiped out, liquidated. 

I did see it coming. 

I didn’t see it coming the way it unfolded. 

I pushed and pushed until I saw the real Congo Bongo. 

A rebel. 

A killer. 

Someone who has cut off many heads. 

It was both chilling and exhilarating to see him reveal his true self. 

Chilling, because he wanted to cut my head off, exhilarating, it certainly got my adrenaline kicking and it was a catalyst for change. 

I shouldn’t hold any grudges. 

It’s just that it wasn’t a clean break. 

It got very messy. 

But well documented by me and the police. 

I had to leave. 

My life was at risk. 

‘Where you go?’ 

I heard you the first time, you fuckwit. 

‘Where you go?’ Asked Bongo again. 

Something in his voice that wasn’t welcoming. 

Something in his voice that said, ‘I have beaten the white guy.’ 

The Africans are totally unknown entity. 

They are loose cannons waiting for any excuse to go into a Congo Bongo trance of destruction. 

Their skin colour alone says something. 

Their wiry hair that they are afraid to display, says something else. 

I know what you were thinking, yes, a toilet brush. 

Providing they let their hair grow out enough like Faith does. 

I’m safe for now. 

Trang backed the Africans. 

I don’t care that I’ve left and didn’t tell her. 

She’s not my ally. 

She’s an enemy. 

She’ll soon find out about the Africans. 

If she can’t be bothered to listen to what happened, then I can’t be bothered telling her I’m leaving.  

My police friend said there was nothing she could do but keep my stuff. 

There wasn’t much in the room, either. 

It’s Rosa who loses. 

I lose too. 

I just can’t go back there for now. 

I need to decompress. 

Seeing their black nigger faces might get me in a funk. 

And there’s no knowing what I’ll do. 

 

A chilling diary entry. 

Had I predicted what was nearly going to happen to me? 

I was right on the money. 

I’m going to post a section of it. 

I have pages and pages of gripes against them. 

But I’ll refrain from posting it all. 

It will only make me look pettier than I am. 

I’m usually right on the money. 

I was raced out of Trang’s granny flat with a machete. 

He was quick to hide the weapon when the police came. 

He hid it in his pants. 

While using the shifter to bang the shit out of my door. 

More on that nightmare later. 

I had no idea pygmies could get so angry. 

They say that the Congo rates 60th in the world for having the lowest I.Q. 

 

The Africans just don’t get it that praying will not protect you from 

 a wild primitive slashing a machete in front of your face. 

Faith thinks she prayed herself out of homelessness.  

I just think she was lucky. 

Bongo has a reputation for handing out cash to abos and other African sluts. 

Some of them were quite hot too.  

Faith is just another slut he’s decided to pay.  

It’s Bongo’s way of atonement for killing his fellow Africans in the Congo.  

He once brought in a Vietnamese hooker, a heroin addict, for a few days.  

Trang, our landlord, wasn’t very impressed.  

That’s Bongo for you.  

Always trying to alleviate his loneliness. 

I assert my right to hate. 

‘Stay positive.’  

Up to a point.  

Being positive means you have no right to be negative.  

It’s censorship. 

It’s another way of saying, I don’t like what you are saying.  

‘Keep positive.’  

Yeah, right.  

 

Don’t let Congo Bongo intimidate you.  

‘You ask anyone who I am outside.’  

I don’t need to.  

I saw you at the Muslim grocery store handing over cash to that dodgy Afghan.  

You are a drug dealer.  

How else can you support Faith on the low income of welfare support? 

 

In the early days, Congo Bongo would have his friends around. 

Five black Africans would congregate outside Trang’s house like it was the fucking ghetto. 

Not a good look at all. 

The area is not a good look. 

And the three surrounding suburbs is an even worse look. 

The Africans have congregated around these suburbs making it their paradise. 

Safety in numbers, hay? 

That’s how they work. 

It was no accident the Faith turned up here. 

She wouldn’t turn up, say in Bayswater. 

Just not enough niggers there to hoodwink. 

She hoodwinked Congo Bongo. 

I was there when it happened. 

I was an accomplice. 

I helped in keeping her hidden from Trang. 

I should have just told the landlady that Congo Bongo had sneaked in someone. 

 

But I didn’t. 

I thought I was doing the right and humane thing. 

First mistake, Africans aren’t very grateful. 

They’ll take as much as they can and that doesn’t mean they owe you anything. 

If anything, what it means, they have more right to fuck you over. 

The bigger the fuck over, the better, in their primitive tribal eyes. 

 

Early days I got to know Bongo. 

He was agreeable, polite and happy. 

Faith, if that’s her real name, dragged him down to the gutters. 

He was now banished from the Garden of Eden and he didn’t even get to fuck her. 

Congo Bongo has intimidated me. 

He was brilliant about it. 

It couldn’t have worked any better. 

First, he got respect, yes, I fear him, secondly, it looked great in front of Faith. 

He’s quite good at knocking on doors, loudly. 

So is Faith. 

These primitives are better without doors. 

Faith loves knocking loud on my door. 

Now Congo Bongo is making a habit of it. 

They want me out. 

Oldest trick in the book, knocking loud on door until the person staying inside that room either goes crazy and insane, or moves out. 

I moved out. 

Another secret weapon of the Africans was singing. 

Faith could do it all day and night. 

I don’t wear ear plugs anymore. 

I don’t need to wear them. 

I don’t wear noise filtering headsets. 

I don’t need to wear noise filtering headsets. 

 

Faith and Congo Bongo should get married. 

And return back to Africa.  

Have kids. 

Embrace their culture. 

Be among their own. 

And stop fucking terrorizing white people. 

We care about our fat.  

We wear it with comfort.  

We just don’t want to admit that we are fat. 

That would be disrespectful to fat, right? 

Tubby. 

Love handles and all. 

It just creeped up on me. 

One day, doing ok.  

The next day, the gut wanted to take a dive below my cock line. 

 

If you are a guy, you know what I’m talking about. 

If you are a woman, Houston, we have a problem. 

 

First step to overcoming a problem is facing up to it. 

 

I am wearing 3 by large shirts. 

That’s three sizes too big.  

Three? 

Yes, sometimes even wore four. 

Given, a bit too big even for me. 

So I’m no stranger to wearing tents. 

 

I really thought the sizes were made for an Asian frame, not a large Caucasian,  

since they were made in China.   

That’s how I justified wearing those big shirts. 

Besides, they didn’t cut into me and make me look ridiculously gay. 

That’s how I look in large shirts. 

Too tight, too clingy, obviously I’m overweight. 

 

Denial, denial.  

 

Have no fear, Mommy’s Little Helper is here.  

 

Without it, I’d have Buckley’s hope. 

With it, I can at least be a player. 

It comes through with its promise.  

She’s dependable like that.  

Before you know it, people will look at your differently.  

An atmosphere of confidence will shield you from deadly radiation and self-doubt. 

You might even eye up a chick who is half your age and feel you have a chance. 

That kind of confidence is a game changer.  

It’s virility in a pill.  

Maybe misguided confidence. 

But no one cares.  

They are too busy thinking about what to cook for their next meal.  

 

On Mommy’s Little Helper, who thinks about food? 

Nearly three month’s sucking from her teat, not only am I addicted to her milk,  

I feel I have a handle on her.  

Trial and error.  

I’ll try and score some more of her soon.  

But for now, best to lay low for a while. 

Maybe the damage is already done. 

Who gives a flying fuck?  

Still lots of great work to do. 

More pounds to shred. 

More weights to lift.  

I’m at a weight where whatever extra weight I lose, will come off effortlessly.  

I know it sounds odd, but once you start feeling good about yourself, everything else falls into place.  

‘Don’t look at the scale every day,’ said my doctor. 

What he meant was, get fucked up and enjoy the tunes watching Japanese soft porn.  

I love my doctor.  

I live with two Africans.  

A male from Congo.  

And a female from Kenya. 

But we really don’t know where she is from.  

And to be honest, who cares? 

I was attacked in the workplace. 

We had a nickname for him.  

Lee Kuan Fucking Yew. 

I put on a few kilograms and put the bite on my doctor. 

‘Duromine, or bust,’ I said. 

It did sound convincing. 

I had put on a couple of kilos.  

It had nothing to do with Post Distress Disorder. 

The truth was I packed on the pounds from drinking two litres of milk a day.  

God bless dairy products. 

It did the trick. 

I was obese anyway. 

Even I could see that.  

Borderline diabetes, a hernia ready to explode and a bad knee, 

I was a prime candidate for losing weight. 

Being a newcomer to dieting, I only wanted to do it once. 

And get it right. 

I didn’t know anything about Duromine.  

So the doctor prescribed one script for 30 milligrams. 

I was on my way. 

Dieting here we come.  

A six pack would follow.  

All I have to do is take the pill and watch the pounds peel off. 

I had been walking all year. 

The only time I got down to 107 was when I had diarrhea. 

Now I was 114. 

My weight increase began about the time I started working for Lee Kuan Fucking Yew. 

For two months he ran me into the ground.  

My body responded by putting on weight.  

He made me feel like a useless piece of shit. 

If only he knew he’d be funding my weight loss.  

But I won’t get ahead of myself. 

Every crossroad and by road leads to Lee Kuan Fucking Yew. 

I should really dedicate this book to him. 

Without him king hitting me in the workplace, I’d still be sitting on 112 kilos  

and walking for an hour every evening.  

If I told you I was two digits, sitting on 99 kilos, you wouldn’t believe me.  

I wouldn’t believe it if you told me this three months ago.  

Duromine isn’t for everybody. 

Losing weight is just plain hard work. 

But if you can’t get it up and even the sight of yourself scares you in the mirror,  

it’s time to take action.  

And that’s just what I did.  

I was working with a Macedonian selling Telco. 

‘The slanty eyed cunt.’  

He just didn’t like Lee Kuan Fucking Yew one bit. 

He was a sales rep. 

Over time I’d won his confidence. 

A real lovely man, in the end I cracked his code  

and when he saw the real me, I couldn’t do wrong in his eyes. 

I’m a wog boy at heart. 

‘Why do you let him stomp all over you?’ 

You’ll see very soon. 

There is a methodology in how I work. 

Give someone enough rope, they’ll eventually hang themselves in ecstasy. 

In the end, I was working as little as possible. 

This job was a sinking ship. 

The sales rep had been cheated two thousand dollars by the chink. 

‘And I’ll get my money’s worth somehow,’ he said,  

and went to the boss’s desk and put the phone down his crutch and rubbed it up deep inside his bum cheeks. 

‘That’s five dollars off the debt,’ he said. 

That day I was laughing uncontrollably. 

Lee Kuan Fucking Yew has been with Commander for fifteen years  

and doesn’t like anyone disrespecting him. 

He knew my laughing outbursts were about him, 

but he couldn’t pinpoint it. 

So, he did only what he could do, get the situation back into  

control by king hitting me in the parking lot. 

‘Get all you can from the creep, get a police report,  

he’s left himself wide open.’  

And I did just that. 

‘I’m not a bad guy,’ said Mr. Telco, who asked me over to his desk, about forty minutes after he king hit me. 

He wanted to show me an apartment which he thought I should buy. 

I was going to work for Lee Kuan Fucking Yew for the rest of my life, he said. 

He had already given me that assurance, after his employee of  

fifteen years lost her house from a fire without insurance.  

He was moving her along before the corpse had retained room temperature.  

She was nearly sixty-five, very matronly and Hungarian born. 

This showed me what Lee Kuan Fucking Yew was capable of. 

Bring it on, I thought, as I began to ham up the situation. 

I nearly got crushed by two stages. 

I was in the middle and they were being pushed on wheels for joining.  

A close call.  

Knocked the wind out of me.  

What the fuck.  

I set up international concerts. 

It was U2’s Joshua Tree concert. 

Lee Kuan Fucking Yew’s push was soft and effete. 

But boy did I ham it up.  

Past injuries, new injuries, fuck and the phycological damage.  

And Hollywood actors think they are only capable of winning Oscars. 

So that’s a bit of background. 

Not long after he pushed me, he must have been feeling bad. 

‘Come over here.’  

He always called me over to his desk for pep talks. 

He did the talking down when I was sitting at my desk. 

‘This apartment could be yours,’ he said. 

Mm, yes it could be. 

‘Well you’ll be working for me for life, so it’s very much in the realms of can do.’  

Mm, I muttered, trying to sound grateful. 

He was the best bullshitter under the sun. 

‘I’m old school,’ he said when I first met him. 

I didn’t even really want the job. 

It’s that he insisted I see him. 

He had no idea where our working relationship would take us. 

I love good sport like the best of them, I thought, a 

as I pretended to show interest in the apartment, he was showing me for sale.  

‘You are kind and merciful,’ I eventually said,  

hamming it up a bit with this tag on,  

‘you only meet one Lee Kuan Fucking Yew in a lifetime.’ 

From the look on his face, he couldn’t decide if I was taking the piss out of him or being sincere.  

‘And who is Lee Kuan Fucking Yew anyway?’ he asked.  

I was being sincere.  

I was going to screw him for all he was worth. 

Apparently, he owned seven properties and an office block.  

At least that was something to work with.  

Listen, if you may, I liked LT. 

He was a fucking crook covering up with respectability of owning his own  

Telco Business Centre. 

‘Listen,’ he would say over the phone in the morning to his clients,  

’I think you have been downloading too much porn.’ 

Of course, he was only joking. 

I heard him use that line at least three times since I was working in his claustrophobic office in an apartment block, which he apparently owned. 

He could never afford to buy that, let alone seven houses and another office block, by selling mobile plans. 

He exuded of crookery. 

He was a thief, a con man, a liar, a survivor and most likely a closet faggot.  

He was a condescending little prick. 

I only liked his money. 

And his coffee. 

He was proud of his little espresso coffee machine. 

Nescafe is better, but I won’t say no to a pod coffee. 

So I drank as much as I could, and more. 

He was paying for it and I was getting him leads. 

As the weeks went by, his complaints got louder. 

I just drank more coffee. 

At this rate he’d bend or break.  

And I wasn’t going to fuck him in the toilet if you know what I mean.  

Even though he asked me to clean up some pubis hair on the floor. 

I wasn’t falling for that trick. 

I’m an old hand at telemarketing.  

I know all the tricks of the trade. 

I can make a weak lead stand up strong with a hard on. 

I don’t know what to call him. 

The case is still unfolding.  

He doesn’t know it, but his assault charges just got escalated to  

obstruction of justice and lying to police. 

‘He pestered me to write up a fake witness report,’ said the Macedonian  

sales rep. 

I was glad to have his loyalty. 

Old Mr. Telco loved putting words into other people’s mouths. 

‘Awake to that game a long time ago,’ said the sales rep, 

 when I asked him, he had told Mr. Old School that I was vaping most of the time. 

‘Never said such a thing,’ he said.  

It was us against him and we had formed a strong alliance  

over the two months.  

Don’t hear or see him. 

Last I heard from him, he was having an operation. 

I’d say he’s left Mr. Old School.  

I never got my commission for sales. 

‘If you don’t trust me, then you can fuck off.’  

That set off Mr. Old School when earlier on I asked him for my commission. 

It was a small ‘set him off.’  

The bigger ones were to come. 

‘I’m taking fifty dollars out of your salary for the coffee.’  

Go for it, you thieving cunt, like how you cut my salary by five dollars an hour. 

Look at the bigger picture. 

Do you think you can pin him for something bigger? 

He didn’t trust me.  

One day he checked my bag to make sure I hadn’t stolen his coffee pods. 

I only drink cheap instant coffee at home. 

Two months of Mr. Old School was enough to write a book on him. 

A lot went down. 

Sales reps need telemarketers. 

Especially in a time of a pandemic. 

I had it pretty easy. 

No face appointments, so the five leads a day were easy work. 

And not even qualified.  

Just a follow up phone call. 

But back to the diet. 

All this shit with Mr. Old School happened in May. 

It’s now nearly October and I haven’t seen any compensation. 

The police never got back to me when I sent them supporting evidence. 

But that’s all just periphery shit. 

On the main stage is my weight loss program. 

You’ll see some same players who have been there for the ride since it began. 

Like Andy, the Vietnamese chemist, and his boss Danial, 

Mr. Insane in the Ukraine.  

Or my doctor, Dr. Kilaji, whose medical report initially allowed the  

police to press charges against Mr. Old School. 

Then there is Niaz, part owner with Danial of the main branch I do all my shopping. 

He has his other branch in the Health Provider district, where I see my dentist, my physio and for a brief time, my Fijian Doctor, of Indian descent. 

I also would go to Daya Scan, for scans and ultrasounds.  

Just up the road is where Wayne lives.  

He got a triple bypass recently and the guy I was staying with who held me hostage is a ten-percenter abo. 

On Duromine, I fear no one. 

If only Mr.-I-am-Only-the-Driver could see me now. 

I’m a certified meth head.  

And I buy it legally. 

And as Andy says it’s not addictive, ‘doesn’t draw upon dopamine supplies.’  

Twice I’ve quit and twice I’ve got back on it. 

I haven’t reached my ideal weight. 

I’ve been off it for two days over the last ten weeks, and I didn’t even get a headache off it.  

I dreamt that Mr. Old School came to visit me. 

I told Andy about how he tried to book an appointment with a wealthy Vietnamese client. 

He spent an hour on the phone bragging about how good he was, how he used to build apartments funded with Triad money in Wuhan and that he would bring a nice little Vietnamese to lunch with him named Jenny. 

‘The Vietnamese businessman took the free lunch, fucked Jenny but didn’t sign the contract.’ 

Andy laughed.  

He also signed my Compensation form. 

He likes my updates. 

I live in the chemist. 

Maybe it’s the fun drugs they stock. 

Who knows?  

Or the sincere service I get, all the time. 

Standards never drop.  

Small spender, big spender, they’ll bend over backwards to help you. 

I said to Andy not to fuck with the Vietnamese. 

‘They defeated America, then later China.’ 

Andy knows I know my stuff.  

My landlady is Vietnamese. 

I have to know my history. 

Andy used to charge me two dollars to sign forms. 

Now he does it for free. 

I guess I’m local now. 

Having a surrogate grandfather who was a chemist also helps. 

I just know how nice and kind chemists are. 

I had visited that chemist once a week for over 18 months for antibiotics. 

That’s how I found Dr. Kilaji. 

My left canine tooth was playing up. 

It was one of twenty crowns I had done in Manila the year before. 

I had no idea it was an infection in a root canal that had only been half done. 

I just assumed food had entered the gap and caused an infection. 

That it was right up in my sinuses and caused my face to swell up like an elephant man,  

I had no idea how bad it really was.  

I wouldn’t know how bad it was until Mr. Old School king hit me and 

I put on weight and I got prescribed Duromine. 

On Duromine, I was a can-do man.  

My wallet opened up. 

A month into Duromine, I started root canals on my two canine teeth. 

I’m onto the last tooth and need two more treatments. 

I have had ten physio sessions.  

I’ve joined a gym. 

I’ve lost 15 kilograms. 

I’m plateauing.  

I’ve jumped ahead here. 

Where is the suspense? 

I need to continue the treatment, said Andy.  

He doesn’t want me wasting all the good work.  

So I popped another 30 milligrams that evening. 

We all need support. 

My chemists want to see a lean and mean version of myself. 

I want to see a lean mean version of myself. 

Three laxatives later, it was a fine shit. 

Too think and leaky to be of any discomfort. 

I told my trainers at the gym I’m off Duromine. 

‘Why do you tell people you are on Duromine?’ asked my doctor. 

Because I’m writing a book. 

He seemed pleased with that answer.  

It forces people to judge me. 

Then I can judge them back accordingly. 

No, no, that’s not my intention. 

I just want tension. 

You’d be surprised who are on diet pills. 

More so than ever with Instagram perfection, we are striving to look better ourselves. 

And Duromine is our filter, touching up the love handles, taking out the bloating in the face and erasing the double chin forever. 

Day one. 

Took tablet about midday. 

30 milligrams. 

Slight buzz until it kicked in after three hours. 

Exercised with weights for two hours, had incredible strength. 

I was fucking Mr. Invincible.  

Fuck that shoulder injury.  

Nothing hurt.  

I could bend iron between my hands if I wanted to. 

Walked six kilometres and wanked all night. 

Ate a banana and swigged some milk. 

Drank water most of the day. 

Pissed as fast as I could drink it. 

Still no hunger.  

After working out, I'm usually famished. 

A mild buzz. Nothing in your face. 

That’s all.  

Just need to ride it out, keep busy and stay resolved. 

Had more energy than normal. 

The pull of the pill.  

I can feel it.  

For the last year and a half, Congo Bongo have been sharing a room with Faith. 

He found her on a park bench outside a library. 

She was kicked out of her last place for freeloading. 

And like a good parasite, she smelt blood and jumped on that warm body to burrow in deep and suck the creature dry.  

That creature was Congo Bongo. 

They cook food in their room on a coal burner. 

And Bongo’s floor is covered in chicken bones. 

Feel I need a shit. 

Need a shit. 

I need to explain something about my shitting. 

I shit in the shower. 

It’s the best place when you have severe constipation. 

The warm water massages the sphincter.  

Besides, I love leaving the Africans a gift. 

My gift to them. 

They don’t clean the toilet, the bathroom or throw out their rubbish. 

This is what I’m up against. 

Now that the warm weather is upon us, the blow flies have arrived. 

They are having a party in the trash bin of the Africans. 

Maggots will crawl. 

I can chase the blow flies out of my room.  

It will be a small blessing if I chase them into the rooms of the Africans. 

Faith now has her own room, opposite mine. 

I can hear her singing every day, usually six hours up, played with loud music. 

She must have bought a good sound system, to blast me away. 

The vitriol simmers, brews, then boils, then spews out as lava.  

I fear and loath the Africans. 

They aren’t what they appear. 

And when they appear what they are, you realize you are caught in their voodoo world. 

I’m waiting for the moment I see that I’m ripped, muscles resurfacing  

after years being hidden in layers of fat. 

I’m doing this for my knee and ankle joints. 

To lose 20 kilos would be a real confidence injection.  

Smell of food makes me sick.  

A good sign.  

Need to make Dr Kalaji proud of me.  

He knows I won’t abuse the drug. 

He believes in my judgement.  

Thanks Danial, my chemist who works with Andy.  

It does make you racy. 

And if others have taken it, so can I. 

He lost six kilos in the first month.  

He’s a chemist and recommends it, that’s good enough for me. 

See if there’s much coming out.  

I like studying my shit. 

Used to have blood mixed with it.  

Ulcer of the stomach.  

I used medication to fix that.  

Same with dieting, science does help us.  

So don’t feel bad about it. 

You are cheating.  

You need to cheat.  

You need to fix up your knees.  

Being lighter, better for recovery, said Dan.  

He’s a big supporter.  

We have sparring moments, but he respects me. 

He’s fair.  

Will cut out evening coffee.  

Nicotine gum and spray seemed to kick in the pill in the evening.  

The techno music sounded great.  

Talked to Faith, eying up her ass.  

Cleaned, talked a bit, talkative, so yes, the pill has kicked in. 

Any slight anxiety I may have had is gone.  

All my bad habits are out the window.  

It’s ground zero.  

Rebooting the hard drive.  

Day two could be a breakthrough.  

If you can get under 100 kilos in a month, fantastic. 

Just don’t give up.  

Teeth done, quit smoking, lose weight.  

That’s the trifecta you are after.  

Night-time I get edgy.  

But even noise pollution doesn’t worry me.  

The more I attain my goal, of what I once thought as insurmountable, walking solid for a year didn’t help much, now I feel there is hope in the air.  

I’m doing this for me.  

Duromine will be a very good friend of mine.  

85 kilos? 

It would be fantastic.  

Was never one for weighing myself.  

It crept up on me. 

But I’m set upon it. 

Even seeing a dentist in a few weeks.  

I’m changing. I’m ambitious.  

I can do it.  

I’ll make it happen.  

Other people can’t make it happen.  

Only I can.  

Negative thoughts are creeping away. 

I say ‘Fuck’ less in my bedroom.  

Overall feeling of well-being has never been better. 

I can see why Hitler took speed. 

Don’t really have insomnia issues.  

So that’s not really affecting me.  

Congo Bongo will knock on my door at 9.30 tomorrow. 

A wake-up call  

It was a godsend being woken up by him today and offered pancakes. 

What magic starts the day?  

It’s 1.44 and sense of well-being is cruise. 

I’m cleaning up my desk.  

Cleaned my room, got rid of the ant hills. 

So the drug is still being faithful to me.  

It’s not a dud.  

Reading lots of forums on the drug. 

It’s a crash course in dieting.  

And it reassures me.  

Need to take before and after photos in front of the mirror. 

A week later you might be startled.  

Think back to gym days and body sculpting.  

Was hesitant to take drugs today. 

Fuck it.  

I’d be cheating myself if I didn’t.  

Not being a pig on the coffee and the lemon juice is really adding a nice herbal element to the weight loss program.  

I’ve never done any dieting.  

I’m not stupid.  

Shifting? 

Exactly.  

The way things are going, this could be a book.  

Didn’t Jack Kerouac write a book in seven days? 

I know who his helper was. 

Duromine has been around since the 50s. 

Tried and tested, it’s still… 

I told Danial my chemist about pink and whites and shuffled my head around in ecstasy. Does he have reservations giving me the prescription? 

Too late, still got 28 pills left.  

I played it safe with my doctor.  

Nothing extravagant.  

But Danial has been on it.  

He swears by it.  

‘Keeps you zooming all day.’  

That was a clincher.  

I begged my doctor for it after putting on three too many kilograms.  

Now I’m with the program.  

I’m on the program.  

I am the program.  

Been doing surveys.  

Have better focus.  

I feel I want to write.  

One thousand words a day.  

The ten-minute daily posts aren't writing.  

I can’t pinpoint it.  

But it’s nearly five hours since I’ve taken the pill.  

I’m pissing more.  

Proof that it’s working.  

Haven’t had a gym work out.  

Will do that soon.  

See if I still have the energy. 

Day two has arrived and I’m doing fine.  

Don’t have a dry mouth.  

Thinking of shredding the pounds.  

Tramadol was good for not eating.  

But it doesn’t come close to this pill.  

It’s the king.  

It’s playing god on our biology.  

Some swear by it. 

That means they are addicted.  

Thirty days on it, I’m wondering how I’ll feel.  

I’m hoping to sleep better tonight.  

Two coffees don’t feel I need any more.  

Reading well on it, very focused.  

Will try and finish Koch today.  

But I need to burn calories.  

I need to hit the twenty-kilogram barbell I have.  

If I can lose even ten kilograms, that’s a lot.  

Be realistic.  

Keeping away from noodles and oil is helping.  

Will go and see Rosa today.  

She’ll be happy to see me.  

I think I’m ready for socializing.  

Chatted to my Maori mate yesterday.  

Told him what I was on.  

He’s old school.  

But this old school hasn’t got enough juice.  

His two Alsatians came up to me for a pat. 

Even the dogs are showing interest.  

Two Vietnamese ladies were signalling me yesterday.  

They look tasty.  

No one is fussy on Duromine.  

It’s become my precious.  

I’m looking for the package every half hour.  

I feel it has a pull on me.  

It’s alluring.  

If it does the job, then it falls into the magical realm. 

Obesity kills.  

I’m no stranger to diet pills. 

This one is a smooth ride.  

Moderation.  

But I’m on 30mg. 

The doc gave me the highest dosage.  

Or so I thought. 

I’m indebted to my Syrian doctor.  

I won’t let you down doc. 

‘Don’t let yourself down, more importantly,’ he says. 

He’s expecting great results.  

So am I.  

Day two. Ate three tiny pancakes.  

My stomach needed it.  

Had a shit, a significant amount.  

It had to be left-over food from two days ago.  

Even cleaning out the intestines.  

Magic.  

I am fat and bloated.  

Just didn’t see it coming.  

I’m proactive.  

I’m going to give it my best shot.  

I’ll probably have doubts tomorrow morning or this evening.  

Who knows, there could be a breakthrough.  

I’ll know it when I feel it.  

I’m no stranger to the power of methamphetamines. 

That’s what I’m taking.  

Let's not sugar-coat the fact.  

Four hours later, past the general don’t I feel good, and at the stage where it’s coursing through my body.  

I’m excited now.  

You want to know minute by minute how you are feeling and hoping you are shedding the weight at the same time.  

Have yet to see anything to rave about.  

But according to the testimonials, up to 90 per cent of users call it the best diet around.  

Forget about Pritikin, pseudo-fucking-ephedrine has worked for ever.  

It’s back to Chaturbate to tweak the mood.  

Pixie Price has certainly upped my mood.  

She’s squirting fresh milk into her mouth.  

A stunner, from Latin America, she might just give motivation to lift some more weights. 

Had a shave and brushed teeth.  

Might do more surveys while in the zone.  

It will keep me busy too.  

The milkmaid is divine.  

She’s easing the way.  

I feel the pill is at its most potent, about four hours in, which the experts confirm.  

Weird thoughts can enter the process if you let them.  

Sleep was crap last night. But it was still sleeping.  

I don’t even need sleep these days.  

I’ll keep on doing surveys to pay for my Medibank insurance.  

It will take the sting out of the payment by contributing towards it with surveys.  

Don’t knock surveys, I’ve saved a fortune since doing them.  

I think it’s time to really push the weights.  

Turn fat to muscle.  

If I’m to lose 15 kilos, I’ll need to tighten up the skin.  

It’s a plan.  

I’m using my own experience as a bodybuilder. 

I can do it again.  

I have all the resources.  

I’m in a good spot to attack my weight head on.  

Thanks, Trang, for bringing me into your life.  

It means more than you’ll ever know.  

That was a hundred push-ups of the weight. 

I can do it now.  

I need to push. 

Take it seriously.  

It’s not a joke now.  

Can you do that for me? 

I’ll try.  

Admit it, you are off your tree and having a great time.  

There’s an element of truth to that.  

I’d be lying if I said otherwise.  

Hard work has sorted out the black dogs.  

They have been put back into their kennel.  

Not feeling hungry.  

Pissing a lot.  

I’m still doing 1X 100 repetitions.  

I’m feeling this is a working wonder.  

I’ve got tired old tits.  

If I can firm them up and expand my shoulders, I will make my overall look not so fat.  

But looking for real gains now.  

Cover ups are behind me.  

Milk maid has her tits in.  

She's saving her milk for a tipper.  

Think she has more in her right breast. She was squeezing hard onto her left nipple.  

She’s full.  

Mother’s milk, nothing beats it.  

Was an intensive work-out.  

Worked up a good sweat.  

Thoughts of missing my walk.  

Twisted knee going to the toilet last night.  

There was water on the floor and the other two fuckers living here didn’t think to mop it up.  

They never mop up. 

They never slip either. 

But a bit more on Congo Bongo and the flooded kitchen incident. 

All the more reason to lose 20 kilos.  

So I can get that knee operation and fix up my knee.  

Weight is the big killer.  

It’s putting too much pressure on the body.  

To be 24 again.  

Stop dreaming and remain focused.  

Here’s the window and it’s one month, to get things back on track.  

No you aren’t going to Mars.  

But boy if feels that way when the drug kicks in.  

The walk tonight wasn’t just a walk, it was a walk fuelled by methamphetamines. 

Fuck, it I said, I’ll do the ten kilometres. 

Think I wore off all the juice. 

Felt a bit chatty at the supermarket, chatting up the check-out girls. 

Or more making a fool of myself.  

They are cute Vietnamese, so there’s always a chance they pity us old farts. 

I won’t stop trying.  

I haven’t given up on the pill. But I miss eating. 

The body needs after the kind of work out I did today. 

I think it was the sheer punishment of my exercises that made me hungry. 

I’ve had one meal today and lots of fruit and salad, that’s got to count for something. 

Eight o’clock the alarm went off and ran for the packet of Duromine and swallowed a tablet. 

That’s how day three started. 

I could get to sleep last night. 

After my first real meal about 11 pm I didn’t have the urge to snack in the evening and I actually fell asleep by 2 am. 

I had given up on Duromine. 

The fat still hangs from my stomach. 

Rome wasn’t built in a day.  

I’m hoping it was built in three days. 

Meal tally for two days was some fruit and a sandwich and lots of exercise. 

Be patient, it can be delightful.  

Some abbreviated quote from a longer quote. 

Don’t despair, it means. 

No real downer feeling.  

Tramadol makes me feel really bad the day after. 

Codeine is just as bad. 

Sleeping tablets, feel groggy. 

Duromine, just smooth sailing.  

It’s there to do a job and nothing more.  

And it does it very well.  

I hope.  

I believe. 

Day three, we have gone a long way.  

It’s time to harness the drug.  

Not let it harness me.  

Felt pains in the ass last night.  

Was that dear Miss Constipation paying me a visit? 

Fruit and lots of it. 

Wouldn’t touch it, off Duromine. 

You are my shining and guiding light.  

Confusion setting in.  

I thought it was Monday.  

It’s Sunday.  

Yesterday I thought it was Sunday, but it was Saturday. 

Duromine works on subtle levels.  

It plays with you. 

It challenges you. 

Dementia? 

We’ll have none of that when focus is one of Duromine’s strengths. 

Felt the drug was losing its potency. 

That’s how I felt.  

I’m monitoring it.  

I want to shed those pounds.  

I’ll make another coffee.  

Getting up early and confronting the day is a bonus. 

The first three hours of the slow release is the best. 

Then after that, it’s surprise time.  

What will the pill do, which direction will it go? 

Interesting, don’t feel any pain from lifting weights. 

It’s as if I’m exempt from it.  

My shoulder is holding up. 

No muscle bruising.  

But that walk yesterday, it was a walk of all walks. And I wasn’t even pushing it.  

Note, don’t skip the walking.  

You need to help the process.  

Don’t be lazy and let Duromine do all the work.  

It’s a partnership, right. 

Was off the forum yesterday, doubt set in. 

Then picked up a thread today. 

Yes, it does work. It has worked and it will work, just got to have faith.  

I won’t slip into another hemisphere of sleep. 

I’m committed to making this trip work.  

No false hopes. 

Head down.  

I’m actually a lot more positive.  

Maybe I had fatigue syndrome.  

Not now.  

More energy.  

More cleaning.  

Yes, it’s Sunday today.  

The little mind games are tolerable.  

If I’m losing weight, does anything else matter? 

If I popped ten of these babies I’d be flying.  

Don’t need to fly.  

Only need help to lose weight.  

This is my first true diet.  

And with tones of energy, I want to do tones of writing.  

The ten-minute stories were keeping me in the game.  

But it wasn’t enough to explore ideas. 

Got my piss bucket.  

Saves me trips to the toilet.  

Don’t forget lemon juice.  

Fuck the lemon juice. 

That’s Bongo’s idea and it’s totally bogus. 

Only Duromine helps you lose weight. 

Be consistent.  

Go out to the lemon tree, pick two lemons and you know the drill.  

It was all too hard, pre Duromine.  

I was listless.  

Fuck it.  

Tomorrow.  

Tomorrow never came.  

I can hear the tunes in my head.  

Had a shit. 

Was a bit messy.  

Detox.  

Onto my first coffee.  

Looking in the mirror, do I look lighter? 

Perhaps.  

Haven’t got a weight machine.  

I will buy one.  

Thinking of doing two months with these pills.  

I might have more energy.  

Knee held up ok after a long walk.  

The ten kilometres flew.  

I’m walking in the winter. 

Last winter I was hidden inside, too frightened to face the world outside.  

Now the night is mine.  

Punk, you can fuck off. 

You know who I’m talking about.  

Nightmare Hotel. 

Don’t go there.  

Maybe he wanted me to lose weight.  

You can’t reason with a crackhead.  

He can’t even remember his name; let alone what day it is.  

Maybe I’ll see Rosa today.  

She’s my neighbour. 

She knows I’m on diet pills. 

And over time, her role in my weight loss will be crucial, both body and mind. 

Crack heads go for three or four days without sleep.  

Duromine, you can sleep on it. 

It’s civilized like that. 

It’s to be used to lose weight.  

Still have a third of my orange juice. 

I’ll have finished it before midnight. 

We need to find a balance.  

I have the power to wake up after only a few hours of sleep.  

Having Duromine next to me is a big help.  

I briefly look at myself in the mirror. 

Is my face thinner? 

Nothing worse than when a crackhead calls you fat.  

You aren’t fat because you are on crack.  

Isn’t it a strange world we live in?  

I’m doing this for my health.  

I need to save my joints. 

Save my knee.  

Save myself.  

I’ve kicked smoking.  

Never thought I would.  

I got all my teeth crowned.  

I don’t look like a crackhead. 

Now I want to lose weight.  

It’s the trifecta I’m aiming at.  

Never take anything for granted.  

Every day is a surprise.  

Now no euphoric rush yet. 

That is part of the deal.  

Deal with it.  

It’s what we live for.  

If this drug helps kick start my metabolism, then I’ll put up with the side effects. 

I’m not getting ulcers in the mouth.  

It’s mild. 

It’s designed not to be abused.  

I’m looking at food differently.  

I need to make healthy choices.  

I don’t feel so bloated.  

I can see my stomach is flatter.  

I’ve never gone a day without food for a long time.  

I have been forced to cut my calories. 

Days at a time.  

But having cash to buy food but wanting to not eat it, is a strange concept. 

I know what it’s like to be hungry and having no money to buy food.  

I must remember that.  

This is a luxury. 

You are in a great position to make this happen. 

What will day four be like? 

To be honest, who gives a fuck. 

 

The early days of these diary entries are naïve. 

Even I’m sickened by them. 

Tension, that’s what this narrative needs. 

I can see my cock now.  

I must be losing weight. 

Only a few days ago I couldn’t.  

Am I losing weight? Or am I just imagining it.  

Alright, two and half hours in.  

Feel less sleepy.  

Optimism.  

Evening, I start doubting it.  

‘Just take me again, and reappraise your goals,’ said Duromine.  

Some people lose 20 kilos in two months.  

That’s the weight of my weight set.  

Imagine how much faster I’d walk with twenty kilograms less to carry.  

I had whiffs of it yesterday.  

Aches and pains go away.  

You do feel like superman.  

It takes you back two decades.  

You can’t be silly on it.  

But fight or flight mode is burning calories.  

My balls are aching.  

Should I stop sitting down on a chair? 

Had a bad fall last week.  

Twisted knee and ankles.  

Thought, this is it, I’m fucked.  

Continued walking.  

Knee holding up.  

It was a miracle before the miracle.  

I’m waiting for miracles.  

Quitting smoking was a miracle.  

You just wouldn’t know how much I was under its spell.  

I resented it.  

I hated it.  

And eventually I did something about it.  

I didn’t use any quitting pills for smoking. Only vaping.  

But for weight loss, I’m going all the way.  

Be good to yourself.  

You also don’t have an ulcer in your stomach. 

That was killing you.  

You are healthier.  

It’s going to be a great year for you.  

It will be in about another two hours that you really start feeling the full impact of the drug.  

It loves to kick in proper and linger for many hours later.  

Might need to introduce the weights, from one to two sweat sessions a day. 

Day three, right.  

Or a shorter walk and higher intensity.  

More stomach crunches. 

It’s disgusting.  

If you can do weights for the full 30 days, it’s bound to help.  

I’ve been too lazy to do weights.  

Could do more but did less.  

Now is the time.  

Just do it.  

I might boil up two eggs.  

Eat them before they spoil.  

Two boiled eggs.  

There’s an idea.  

Eggs or mandarin? 

Could have eggs tonight.  

I worry about things in the fridge I haven’t used that will spoil.  

Upside, I’m losing weight.  

Are you? 

I’d hope so.  

Without a scale to weigh myself it’s all on feeling.  

Perception.  

It’s not like when you snort a line of coke or speed, and throw your clothes off, thinking you are Mr. Olympia.  

No, no, Duromine is a better class of drug, manufactured by professionals in a lab, not cut with impurities.  

You know what you are getting, every dose.  

Prescription drugs are safer.  

That was a friendly advisory not from the Health Officials. 

Need to eat during the day. 

If you don't eat, your body panics and doesn’t burn fat. 

It keeps it.  

Trick it into not wanting to do what it does so that in the end it burns the fat.  

I’m no nutritionist, but I have a few ideas.  

Three hours later, I’m feeling fine.  

Eat quickly before take-off, just about to exit earth’s atmosphere.  

Eggs and toast. 

No salt. 

It was yummy.  

It’s food.  

It’s not a lot.  

It’s enough to keep you going.  

Threw out rubbish, the Africans don’t like throwing out rubbish. 

Congo Bongo doesn’t throw rubbish out. He just leaves it lying around hoping someone will clean up after him.  

We oblige. 

12 years as a refugee, he wasn’t taught the importance of throwing rubbish out. 

Hay this journal isn’t about him. 

He’s not a crackhead. 

He’s not a criminal.  

And I’m high as a kite on speed and can throw the rubbish out. 

It gets me out.  

Things are kicking in about now. 

Made another coffee.   

I feel the pill is kicking in.  

Wolf Mask says I can lose weight easily in one month.  

He’s happy I’m losing weight.  

He’s happier that I’m writing more.  

So am I.  

Second coffee tastes better than the first.  

If Wolf Mask says you are going to lose weight, then you are going to lose weight.  

Ok, back to food.  

If I eat a mandarin, it will aid with my fibber intake.  

Then I’ll eat an apple.  

I need to buy bananas, though.  

Ate a mandarin.  

Was very refreshing.  

This is the time where the pill is peaking.  

Techno is sounding really good.  

Re-read some of my diary, oh me did I write that? 

I’ll write some more too.  

Five hours later, I’m lifting weights.  

Feeling cruisy.  

Started chewing nicotine gum and a couple of Nicorette sprays. I’ve got to up the repetitions.  

Pump and pump.  

Take photos today, so you can see before and after.  

Let's be optimistic. 

You will lose weight if you let your mind say that you will lose weight. 

If you let your mind say it doesn’t want to lose weight, it won’t.  

So you know where the enemy resides.  

Mind over matter and all that jazz.  

School of second chance.  

This is your chance.  

High grade speed, on tap.  

It’s legal too.  

A lot of people are using it, said Wolf Mask. 

‘I know people who were 179 kilos who lost twenty kilos after a month on it.’  

It’s reassuring, really is.  

Feel like I’m crashing.  

Heavy work out.  

Not so long.  

Maybe I have been overdoing it.  

Remember, you haven't’ done this kind of work out since your early twenties. 

Watching a documentary on Space on Netflix.  

I’m going to rest.  

See what the pill is going to do after six hours.  

Maybe a sleep might sort me out.  

It’s heavy-duty medication.  

I respect that.  

Not feeling hungry.  

Stomach feels smaller.  

It was bloated after my sandwich last night.  

The fruit I’ve eaten today didn’t bloat my stomach one bit.  

Day four is tomorrow.  

Will it get easier?  

Will I get bored studying this diet blow by blow? 

There are no blows. 

Success by success.  

Don’t let the mind talk you out of it.  

Day three and going strong.  

You woke up early.  

You did it easy.  

Just jumped out of bed.  

Your reality is slightly altered.  

Only slightly.  

There lies the addiction, staying in that altered state. 

I’ll just come up for air and decompress.  

It’s science.  

Conditioning.  

Be good to yourself.  

You’ll start reaping the rewards soon.  

At the end of this you’ll have a book.  

That pimple on the balls is getting better.  

Too much sweat.  

Has to be a pimple.  

I normally wouldn’t worry about this shit off the drug.  

On it, I’m in monitoring mode.  

Ok, you won’t sleep.  

Felt a bit low, tired, and questions crept in.  

I’m back up at my terminal.  

Maybe it was lack of sleep last night.  

But I just got to pull through.  

This might get easy.  

The first three days are the hardest.  

Is it working, or is it not? 

They’ll crop up constantly. 

I’m never going to lose weight, I’d say. 

I said that about smoking, and I did quit.  

So never say never.  

Drinking leftover coffee to pick me up.  

Wondering if it was the nicotine aids that got me down.  

I’ve induced fevers with too much nicotine.  

‘You fat bastard.’ 

I wasn’t always like that.  

I empathize with larger people.  

We are so superficial, judging people on their waistline.  

And we let those ass-wipes get away with it.  

It can ruin a person’s self-esteem.  

But not with Duromine. It’s the friend of the fat guy.  

It understands.  

It sympathizes.  

It nurtures.  

It gives energy where there was none.  

It creates happiness.  

It makes music sound good.  

It helps us focus on tasks.  

It helps us clean the house.  

It helps us wash our clothes. 

It gives hope beyond hope.  

The sneaky bugger.  

It’s crept up on me.  

It’s still pumping rich in my veins.  

It’s suppressing my appetite.  

Oh dear Duromine, you are such a flirt. None of this seven-day benders and wanking all the time.  

This drug has class. 

Respect it and it may respect you.  

Off the testimonials today.  

I'll save them for later.  

Day three has been a challenge.  

But nothing dark.  

Nothing threatening.  

The black dogs were somewhere.  

I chased them away.  

As I said, a day after taking sleeping pills or codeine, you feel shit.  

The day after taking this, you feel great.  

Clear-headed.  

Even booze can be heavy duty the following day.  

Duromine is always a soft landing with a goal in mind.  

Lose that weight baby. Lose it.  

The drug is prescribed, you pay for it, then you take it and diet.  

There’s no nastiness associated with it.  

The crack heads and junkie have given methamphetamine a bad name.  

We know why they took it.  

To watch their weight.  

Crackheads, off the gear bloat up.  

Bloated and no confidence, skin peeling, boils festering, these junkies are pathetic and mangy.  

Not with Duromine.  

The coffee is going down well.  

No headaches.  

No real dry mouth.  

Juist pissing a lot.  

I really have no reason to complain.  

I’m writing tons of words.  

Before I was taking Duromine, my writing was about three hundred words a day. Now it’s 3000.  

And I’m losing weight as well.  

What a wonder drug. 

Big work out.  

Arms feeling it.  

Two sessions today.  

Not sure if Duromine has levelled out.  

She’s moody too.  

I might not walk tonight.  

Two gym sessions will cancel out the not walking.  

To be honest I’m sick of walking.  

Don’t really feel hungry.  

But I want to rehydrate with fruit.  

Less pissing that way.  

I’m feeling pretty good.  

Nine hours have elapsed.  

I might hit the sack early tonight.  

Let’s see if I zonk out.  

Not really feeling irritable.  

Avoiding the Africans.  

Bongo will play his loud crap in the evening.  

But I can’t be confrontational on this drug.  

Better I just set my sights on my goal.  

And rejoice in doing something about being overweight.  

Tons of energy for weightlifting.  

I can just go on and on.  

Getting good heart beats.  

It’s cardio all the way.  

This is the toning aspect of the diet.  

There will be excess loose skin. 

I’m being optimistic. 

Not hungry yet. 

Those two eggs on toast have sustained me. 

Working out heart, sweating, to purge out the toxins.  

Day four tomorrow.  

How much have I lost? 

I haven’t got a clue. 

Better this way.  

 Not knowing.  

Nothing worse than weighing yourself every half hour. 

Happy about not walking.  

I just felt I needed a day locked inside.  

Me and my weights.  

Where I can dream.  

Come on Duromine, charm me.  

With weight loss.  

I’ll shout from the roof top if you do.  

Been at this weight shit for two hours.  

Over and over.  

I’m really pushing.  

This is the goldilocks zone for losing weight.  

I’m teaching myself to push.  

It’s time to not fear success.  

You can do it.  

You can try doing it.  

So long as you tried.  

Toning up.  

Eating less.  

And buzzing all day.  

What a magic combo.  

Beats a pepperoni pizza.  

The task ahead doesn’t seem so daunting.  

It’s still a long slog.  

But I’m three days into it.  

Not feeling addicted yet.  

But could easily get dependent on it.  

I’m going to sweat so much that I’m not even going to feel any negative side effects.  

In some ways, Duromine is so in alignment with my biology.  

When will I want to eat? 

It’s late evening I get the craving.  

It’s still there.  

But my portions are more than half the usual glutton portion.  

‘Just humour me,’ says Duromine.  

I am.  

She does speak to me sometimes.  

Directly.  

Faith is the resident freeloader.  

Told me she was from Congo.  

But I know she is from Kenya. 

She’s usually pretty noisy in the evening.  

She’s been freeloading off Congo for the last year and a half.  

The way she behaves, you’d think it’s her right.  

She doesn’t like cleaning.  

She doesn’t like helping out.  

She came over here as a student.  

She’s been good recently.  

Bongo is stuck with her.  

She’s caused me hell.  

She is evil.  

She’s a Christian, the dirtiest evil Christian you are ever going to meet. 

She threatens me with black magic.  

She’s not shy to knock on my door and tell me to turn down my music.  

She contributes nothing to the household. 

Congo Bongo is under her spell.  

Freeloader Faith is cruel.  

She’s gone for months not speaking to me, punishing me.  

She’s nearly got us kicked out of here a few times.  

She’s really upset Trang, our landlady.  

Faith got kicked out of her last house for freeloading.  

Then she spent a night outside the local library and tested her faith.  

She had Bongo’s number and called him.  

She had never called him before.  

He took her in.  

She goes out most days and hangs out with other Africans.  

No one knows what she does.  

I think she’s prostituting herself.  

She’s a mystery. 

She thinks God saved her.  

It was Bongo’s money that he received from the government.  

Faith is the Queen of Africa.  

So I’m cleaning up after the two of them.  

It really pissed me off.  

But you can’t win against the Africans.  

On Duromine, they are both more bearable.  

I clean up after Bongo when he cleans his room.  

He’ll do a large sweep from his room to the bin in the kitchen. 

He’s too lazy to get the bin. 

It took me a while to figure that that out. 

I usually have to do another sweep. 

As he sweeps his gunk past my room. 

From his room to the kitchen, there’s usually a trail of slime and rot and guts. 

My job is to clean up after him. 

His room is like a cave floor, with chicken bones.  

It stinks.  

But I’m into reconciliation.  

The pygmy loves to slam his door.  

He’s been told to close it quietly by Trang. 

When I reminded him about not slamming the door, he asks: ‘What is your mission?’  

I can’t win. I’m a white guy who has no rights in his own country.  

But I’m hoping losing weight will put me in a better mood.  

I must stop being a defeatist.  

I can feel a surge.  

The tablet isn’t spent yet.  

I’m kind of grinding my teeth.  

Duromine wants me to finish this book.  

No excuses now, right Jack? 

Oh man I’m peaking again.  

She’s a wild fuck our Duromine.  

If the Africans continue giving me support in these trying times, I’m going to say a prayer.  

They don’t see anything wrong with what I’m doing.  

They just leave me to it.  

We are working things out.  

I throw their rubbish in the bin.  

The pygmy hasn’t thrown rubbish out for the whole two years I’ve known him.  

But he makes up for it in other ways.  

Back to this gear.  

It’s fucking coursing through my veins.  

I don’t look any skinnier.  

Not at all.  

Don’t even feel it.  

But day four might be a watershed.  

To shed some weight.  

I won’t hold my breath.  

But I think it's time to put in some hard work.  

Doing weights on this gear is a big help.  

I’m a piston.  

Firing those weights.  

I just won’t stop.  

I can’t believe the energy being released.  

I’m channelling that to weights and some sit ups.  

Duromine isn’t just a weight loss drug.  

It’s a keep busy and very busy kind of drug.  

Fuck, never had so much power in my life.  

Going back to pre-Duromine is going to be a problem.  

Oh well, I’m resolved.  

The doctor won’t prescribe it again.  

Legal speed.  

I had no idea it was going to be like this.  

Not complaining.  

Onto to the water now.  

No urge to eat.  

Yesterday the pill seemed mild.  

I thought with each day my tolerance of it would build up.  

Not the case on day three.  

Maybe it’s rewarding me for my patience and flattery. 

‘How did you know?’  

Just a hunch dear.  

I took the tablet at 8 am.  

It’s nearly twelve hours later and the pill is having a revival.  

The more I exercise, the more it’s determined to keep me away from food.  

Maybe tomorrow it won’t be as effective.  

Maybe I'll have to cut the pill in half.  

I could do that in the second week.  

This pill has a mind of its own.  

‘Write you want, write you will.’  

No shit. 

The pill has settled down. 

Never thought it would.  

One meal.  

Feel full. 

One meal broken into two.  

Nothing extravagant.  

Calming down now. 

I did some sit ups and more weights and stretches up until 8 pm. 

Was getting irritable with Bongo slamming the door. 

That's when I knew the speed was wearing off. 

Felt skinnier.  

Some people lose three kilos in the first three days. 

Would be nice if that was the case.  

I’m optimistic but a realist.  

Day three is officially over.  

Head not fuzzy.  

Clear. 

Just hope I’m on track. 

Day four, woke up at 7am and jumped for the Duromine.  

Day five? 

I can’t remember. 

 Hay, if this show continues, I could lose weight.  

There is hope.  

On Duromine, everything is possible. 

So they say. 

Didn’t read the forum yesterday. 

Didn’t want to get my hopes up.  

That corn on my toe isn’t getting better.  

Doc says to leave it be.  

I’ve written over 7000 words in three days.  

Yes, that’s a miracle too. 

Didn’t feel hungry in the evening.  

No urge for snacks late at night. 

It’s working.  

Changing habits. 

I need to lose 20 kilos. 

So in earnest I do some weights and sit ups.  

Yesterday the pill just kept on going and going. 

It even surprised me.  

More of that please. 

Rain and overcast today.  

I started getting grumpy last night.  

It felt good.  

 Nearly slipped again on the wet toilet floor last night. 

The fuckers didn’t mop up their own piss. 

I’ll have to remedy that one day.  

The pygmy is slamming the door again.  

Or was its Faith?  

She visits his room and slams the door.  

Stop this now.  

Keep them out of your journal.  

First coffee and feel fine.  

Pill should be kicking in soon.  

Typing is faster, keyboard feels better on a new Mac. 

Some aches and pains.  

Great work-out. 

Really feeling it.  

I worked-out for five hours.  

Sustaining a sweat.  

Need to put on a knee brace.  

Yes, I am tired.  

I am learning new habits.  

Don’t sleep during the day.  

Say you can last the day.  

Pissed a ton yesterday.  

Just pissed a ton. 

My piss bucket has become a good friend of mine.  

I also use it to wash my clothes. 

I’m not squeamish like that. 

I’m getting my sleep back in order.  

Thanks Duromine.  

That coffee in the afternoon kicked in the pill again.  

I’ll be drinking more of that shit. 

So did the mandarins.  

‘They are very sweet,’ said the Vietnamese fruit lady at my local. 

That was enough recommendation.  

Cost me five bucks.  

Usually I’d balk at that price.  

Not when you are on Duromine.  

It makes you agreeable, on the most part.  

The transitional period. 

When you know it's about to make an appearance?  

Need to take a shit. 

Was a bit sloppy on day two.  

Eating more fruit.  

Should be less sloppy and explosive. 

Not farting as much. 

Had bad flatulence.  

Could Duromine have cured that too? 

I believe it's all about diet. 

Watch your food intake.  

Salads.  

Salmon, if you can afford it.  

Watch the bread intake. 

Eat just enough to keep you full.  

Don’t be a glutton.  

Eat more fruit. 

Try and cook up a bowl of vegetables.  

And keep on working-out.  

Everything else will fall into place. 

If you are committed to making the right changes.  

I’m ready for a crap.  

Clean out my system.  

Not sure how I feel. 

Can’t say I’ve got the buzz. 

Or have more energy.  

Still tired. 

Fatigue. 

Didn’t sleep much.  

No door slamming.  

I’m not concerned.  

Faith is floating around.  

She’s up early.  

If I can avoid seeing her, I’m usually happier. 

She’s become a good friend.  

On codeine, I’d be really angry the next day and she could send me in a funk.  

It was a reason not to take codeine.  

But with Duromine, it’s so different.  

I guess I’m using more self-control. 

I’m here to lose weight.  

Not to cause problems.  

Heard that you can become moody on the pill.  

Not really happened to me.  

But I’m not interacting much.  

So I’m not noticing it.  

Might have one more coffee. 

Need to take that crap. 

Faith is cooking early.  

She’s a small girl but eats a lot.  

I won’t get angry about the pygmy’s piggery. 

It will be counterproductive. 

I threw out their rubbish yesterday.  

I swept and mopped outside his door.  

Ants were milling around.  

Congo Bongo is the resident slob.  

He doesn’t care.  

He has me to clean up after him.  

Faith rarely cleans up after him.  

She’s a lazy bitch. 

Don’t let them ruin your narrative. 

Now time to take a dump.  

Had a shit.  

It was a clean and neat one.  

Didn’t smell bad.  

‘I’m on day four of my diet,’ I told Bongo who walked into my wall of shit.  

He knows I’m pills.  

Told Faith they were very strong last night.  

She smiled.  

She knows what is going on.  

Bongo knows what is going on.  

He says drink more lemon juice.  

Which I will.  

I actually looked in the mirror and felt I was slimmer.  

I wanted to run to the clinic and weigh myself.  

But I don’t want to be doing that.  

This is a solitary exercise.  

Feel the force. 

Feel the flab. 

Feel the magic.  

I got the power.  

Pill is kicking in.  

Made a second coffee. 

No constipation, what a magic drug.  

Couldn’t shit on Tramadol.  

July, mid-winter, weight loss program.  

It’s just perfect.  

Why do it over summer.  

When you can get a head-start over winter.  

Just makes so much sense.  

Be patient.  

Make the right choices.  

Enjoy.  

Day?  

Who cares?  

Not gone crazy or anything.  

Getting sleep.  

I’ve bought fuck all food over last four days.  

I’m saving money.  

Every second day I’d be topping up with goodies, most of it fattening.  

Two hours later and the energy is kicking in.  

Duromine, I knew you would visit me eventually.  

It’s 9 am and I’m listening to techno music.  

Here is a testimony I’m rather fond of: 

‘I did have some mood swings, I may have snapped at a few people, but they deserved it anyway. It also made me talk a lot. But it is a great way to jump-start weight loss.’ 

All my t-shirts are XXL. 

What does that say?  

They are big enough to put a pole in the middle of it and make a tent.  

Faith hasn’t paid rent for over a year.  

She doesn’t want to pay rent.  

She doesn’t need to pay rent.  

She’s committed to not paying it.  

She’s found a compliant stooge.  

Just don’t mess with Faith’s gravy train.  

She’ll release the voodoo demons on you.  

Faith’s praying is fucking annoying.  

It can go on for hours.  

Then it’s followed by singing for another couple of hours. 

Following that, another session of gospel music that goes on till late evening.  

She doesn’t want to work.  

Only praise the Lord.  

Africans are too religious. 

I don’t know who is growing the corn for the maize they use for the staple African diet, but I bet they are making a fortune.  

Africans are lazy.  

They starve because they pray too much.  

They pray to the point that they forget  

Day four and the pygmy is being noisy.  

He doesn’t even know he’s slamming the door.  

He knows he needs to be gentle since it was modified by another tenant but like everything for the pygmy, he’ll try and get away with as much as possible.  

He just can’t be assed.  

He wants me to leave.  

He wants this granny flat to be a black zone.  

It’s obvious.  

I’ve told him hundreds of times.  

He never cleans up after himself.  

Every time I tell him I cleaned up after him he says, ‘You’re a good man.’  

That’s his way of doing nothing.  

He’s very smart.  

He’s very lazy.  

He loves having a white slave.  

On a positive note, I’m not going to write about him.  

Might tell him gently to close the door more quietly. 

It’s no big deal but it’s annoying.  

Since he moved next door to my room, it’s just been noise, noise and more noise.  

He has a large speaker, and the sound goes through the thin wall.  

Bongo is in Australia.  

He’s on benefits. 

He’s a king.  

It shows in his behaviour.  

Maybe I moan a bit too much.  

But it’s better than living with that crack head, ‘I’m just the driver.’  

So show some perspective.  

He’s really not that bad.  

I wear ear plugs, often.  

You get what you pay for.  

Back to day four, I will lose weight.  

That’s what this trip is all about.  

Had a mandarin and an apple.  

No eggs for breakfast.  

Just fruit.  

Seems a better option.  

Feeling a bit tired.  

Maybe exhausted from yesterday's workout.  

Put in my ear plugs.  

I need to take control of my life.  

May even move next door.  

It’s quiet. 

Will have a walk later. 

Feeling a bit flat. 

That’s good.  

Baby steps, one step at a time, said the guy who lost 50 kilos.  

It’s inspirational. He’s now 90kilos from 146 kilos. 

He has inspired me.  

Said diet played a big factor in his success, and walking.  

Duromine, you have surprised me again.  

I slept about two hours in the afternoon.  

You weren’t working for me.  

Where was the buzz today? 

It was piss weak.  

I was losing faith in you.  

Day four was proving a bummer.  

I was in pain all day from workout yesterday.  

I thought this was the end of the dream.  

I was about to throw in the towel.  

But come later afternoon, everything changed.  

I had already eaten a tuna salad.  

It was healthy. 

Quite a big bowl. 

I was slipping.  

I was guzzling the calories.  

That was my thought.  

Then I went for a walk.  

It was raining outside.  

I love walking in the rain with my Bunnings umbrella.  

‘It’s my corona bubble,’ I told the cute Vietnamese at my local.  

‘Are you going to pay for those bananas.’ 

They were tucked under my arm.  

I was still buzzing.  

Duromine had crept on me.  

I had the energy for the ten-kilometre walk.  

I was sweating and felt fantastic.  

Just me and the street.  

Rain scares people.  

I decided to put on my heavy-duty work boots.  

They are comfortable and protect me from the rain and slippery surfaces.  

I felt lighter.  

Day four.  

What a surprise.  

I’m not being too optimistic.  

But waking up at seven this morning had thrown everything up in the air.  

It was how the day was going to land.  

Back to walking.  

I need to help the speed along.  

You won’t achieve weight loss hiding in your room wanking to porn all day.  

Day five tomorrow.  

I bought some bananas and bread.  

‘I hope you didn’t think I was going to steal the bananas,’ I said. The lovely lady monitoring the security screens looked up at me with benevolence.  

I was glowing.  

Arresting Jesus Christ is just bad form.  

So thoughts of losing a lot of weight occupied most of my thoughts on my walk tonight.  

Baby steps, as the guy in the YouTube video says.  

He lost 54 kilograms over three months on Duromine.  

He was a fat fuck. 

That’s what attracted me to his video.  

His story is long and sad.  

But he pulled himself up by his bootstraps and did it.  

That’s what matters.  

Baby steps.  

Compared to today, yesterday I was speeding, all fucking day long.  

Today was different.  

I guess sleep deprivation has caught up on me.  

Once I sorted that out, the speed went out of hibernation and decided to give me a lift.  

‘I’ve not forgotten you,’ she said, reassuringly.  

She’ll be sending me into day five with hope.  

I feel that the drug is levelling out.  

I know what to expect.  

We are learning to get along with each other.  

If I can lose 14 kilograms, that would be fantastic.  

I can only do that if I keep the walking up.  

And watching what I eat.  

I don’t really feel hungry now.  

No cravings.  

That’s the point of the drug.  

I’ve got a month to make some major changes.  

Here’s the incentive.  

I’ve never dieted in my life.  

The first time I do I plan to do it right.  

I won’t expect miracles.  

But if Ms. Duromine wants to show me one, I’m all ears.  

First week is crucial.  

If you haven’t given up.  

Week two will be promising.  

I’m already devising plans on how I can get a repeat.  

Not sure if that’s healthy.  

But if it helps me lose weight, it can’t be bad.  

‘It’s for your health,’ said my health provider. 

Looked that way, I didn’t feel too bad being associated with Duromine.  

She has a bad reputation in some places.  

Treat her like a lady and she’ll be gentle back.  

Or if it’s rough sex you want.  

Even lurid thoughts have dropped.  

The speed aspect of her has left and now she’s getting down to business.  

Suppression of food.  

Suppression of binge eating.  

Thinking about how you can control what you eat.  

You are what you eat.  

That message has never been so clear.  

I’m a fat fuck.  

I’ve eaten crap.  

It’s manifested itself in a bloated appearance.  

 

I’m feeling better.  

The Latinos on Chaturbate are looking like ladies tonight.  

I’m not wired.  

I’m feeling calmer.  

I can only take this course, one day at a time.  

Day four is behind me.  

I’ve got bananas and some juice in the fridge.  

I’m not even drinking much milk.  

I don’t have the cravings for it.  

What will tomorrow bring? 

I can’t run to the scale.  

You have probably only lost one kilogram.  

That will probably tip the scale.  

I’ll want to quit.  

I want to feel the results.  

I want to see it.  

I don’t trust the weight machine.  

I do but I don’t.  

I want to be surprised after hard work.  

I need to earn this.  

That I know.  

I’m committed.  

I’m overweight.  

I’m not proud of it.  

Duromine is the last resort.  

But it kicks in so many positive lifestyle changes.  

It’s the kick up the ass to do something about it.  

Do you want to be the butt of other people’s jokes?  

‘I feel sorry for the woman you are fucking.’ 

‘You are a fat fuck.’  

I know you were on the gear to keep your weight down.  

They wouldn’t admit it.  

I’m not on crack.  

I’m on Duromine.  

And I’m going to do it right.  

All your fat jokes have given me the incentive to move on.  

I’m doing it for me.  

Not for you.  

Obesity is a disease.  

You wouldn’t put someone down for having cancer.  

And nor should you put someone down for being overweight. 

That’s my point.  

Congo Bongo seems quiet tonight.  

He has been slamming the door lately. 

Be mindful Bongo, of the door, and I’ll be mindful.  

He has his maid cooking for him.  

He’s paying for it.  

I’d prefer to boot her out and pocket the money.  

Every day he pays for Faith, every day she thinks he’s an idiot.  

Women have no respect for idiots. 

They are easy games to be taken advantage of, that’s all.  

You are being used Bongo.  

She’ll never pay you back. 

She’s played you well.  

And you can’t even see it.  

Idiot.  

But that is not my concern here.  

My concern is losing weight.  

I’m making a communion with my body.  

Be gentle on me through this period.  

We’ll both get through it together.  

I’m being kind to you too. 

I don’t want you working so hard to carry me around in this life.  

I want to ease the burden by about twenty kilograms.  

We’ll both be grateful for it.  

You fat fuck. 

Huh, what? 

Mind your own fucking business.  

Fat or skinny, I’ve enjoyed my states both equally.  

Waking up and popping that pill is the highlight of the day. 

You just can’t wait for the night to end.  

The reunion with Ms. Duromine each morning is what I live for.  

The promise.  

It’s so promising.  

Get fucked up and lose weight at the same time.  

I really shouldn’t speak disrespectfully to Duromine.  

She could turn on me, any moment.  

Respect her.  

And she’ll respect you back.  

Yesterday was a bit intense. 

I’m glad the pill went easy on me today. 

The walk was very solitary.  

Ten kilometres later, I provided my end of the bargain.  

I had been walking before I took the pill.  

Nothing shabby either.  

I’ll put in some longer distances over the week, and plan. 

Plan for that day when I weigh myself.  

I want my doctor to be proud of me.  

I want him to think he made the right decision.  

I want his successes to continue.  

I won’t let you down doc.  

I’ve moved rooms.  

Bongo is still slamming his door.  

Faith is paying late night visits and laughing loud. 

Bongo has a goofy laugh.  

Every time I hear it, I think what is even funnier is that he’s being conned by Faith. 

She knows how to make him feel wanted.  

But I’ve moved rooms.  

Bongo was banging around all day today.  

Even on the diet pill, it was annoying him.  

Bongo doesn’t need to close the door quietly. 

It serves him no purpose.  

Helping me out has never been his agenda. 

He won the lottery and doesn’t have to work for the rest of his life.  

He’s content.  

He thinks I just complain a lot. 

On the surface of things, yes, I am. 

Bongo wasn’t even supposed to live in that room.  

‘I could die,’ he said, if he had to stay another summer in the windowless room that Faith is in.  

If I stay in this room, I’ll have to listen to her prayers.  

If I stay next door to Bongo, I’m bound to really lose it. 

Faith can listen to my loud music now. 

She’s never helped my course.  

I feel better in this room.  

It’s away from the retard Bongo.  

He sounds just like the aliens in that South African movie District Nine.  

 

It was about apartheid.  

The aliens are hoarders.  

Bongo is a hoarder.  

I’ve made the right move, for now.  

Love the meds.  

Ate two eggs on toast.  

Had a banana on toast. 

Total today, six slices and four eggs.  

Half of what I usually eat in a day.  

I’ll move in and out until Bongo gets it.  

Had to move back after Faith was banging too much in the kitchen.  

I have ear plugs now. 

Might even buy some more.  

Am I moody? 

While Faith was paying her ‘better keep the master happy’ visit to Bongo’s room,  

I slammed my door shut. 

It was loud. 

Wonder if they got the message. 

Doubt it. 

Australia is for them. 

I’m just an inconvenience. 

Now it’s time to relax.  

I’m safe from that Alien next door who is always banging around his room.  

When he plays his music, it’s even worse than his banging, going on for hours. 

I need a cash injection and to get out of here. 

Bongo said once, ‘You don’t know who I am.’  

Didn’t Faith say the same. 

Threats, threats and more. 

Wish those primitives would return back to where they came from. Lol 

I admit I’m being moody.  

Moving in this room was a back-up plan.  

It’s time. 

I’ll tell Trang. 

‘He keeps on slamming the door.’  

‘But I already told him to do it quietly.’  

I know, and you also told him ten times to move back to his old room, but he didn’t. 

He’s a sly and calculating primitive.  

I don’t think he was a refugee. 

The guy from Sri Lanka wasn’t either.  

The last tenant even told me he had fake documents made up.  

Australia truly is the promised land. 

Peace has been restored.  

Bongo wants me to leave. 

Faith as well.  

They don’t want whites here. 

But in this room, all is quiet.  

Bongo can come and go. 

His door makes a god-awful whooshing noise when he opens it and then a slamming noise when he closes it. 

Faith makes her appearance, and the door opens and slams again.  

It has slowly driven me crazy. 

Thought Bongo was going to stab me one night after I told him not to slam the door.  

‘You are a bad man. It was better before you came.’  

He’s been caught out by me.  

He never throws the rubbish out. 

He’s that good. 

He’ll never admit it.  

Play dumb, all the way.  

Worked for him so far, so why admit he’s a lazy primitive cunt. 

Will Duromine work? 

I have my doubts. 

These doubts creep in when the pill has worn off. 

Then it’s followed by buoyant optimism on the pill the next day.  

It’s working. It’s not working. 

This is the fun of it.  

I knew you’d pull through in the end.  

I had no doubt.  

Bullshit. 

Day five has arrived. 

I popped the pill.  

Woke up at ten today. 

Let’s see how things go.  

Dropped my laptop last night.  

Luckily it didn’t break. 

But boy was I cursing. 

Sleeping in isolation last night did me the world of good. 

Restless sleep. 

But a good sleep. 

You need to balance your sleep and food when on the pill. 

Otherwise it can cause havoc. 

As you saw yesterday.  

I can feel a shit coming on.  

I just hope I don’t get caught by Trang using the room.  

I’ll move my stuff out like I wasn’t even in there. 

Lost Voices. 

It’s playing on me.  

It was Koch’s requiem. 

He knew he was dying. 

He finished it before his death.  

It’s a wonderful work of art.  

Not quite. 

It’s a masterpiece. 

It was about a Tasmanian coming home to roost. 

The outlaws in Van Diemen’s land were truly epic.  

Ned Kelly pales into insignificance when you compare the backdrop of Tasmania, a penal colony in every sense.  

Lost Voices, The Double man, are linked.  

They are books of awakening.  

First love.  

Sometimes the most important love.  

The older lady and the inexperienced boy.  

Yes Koch. 

It’s every boy’s wet dream.  

Ok, back to survey land. 

Feeling good.  

First coffee and an hour later, the pill is slowly building up. 

Reviewed Koch’s book and posted it for general consumption.  

Need a shit.  

Need to do more surveys.  

Need to clean the room next door. 

Need to keep up pretences, right? 

I don’t want to get kicked out.  

Need to play this one carefully.  

Rent day.  

More surveys. 

Losing weight.  

More sit-ups then. 

Some weights too.  

Knee a bit sensitive after last night’s walk. 

I do love my Africans.  

You knew that.  

Right? 

I’m really not sure how I feel.  

Bongo comes out with his phone and shows me a picture of a black pussy. 

‘I told her to give that life up and come to Australia.’ 

And to fuck you. 

Faith was washing her clothes and laughing.  

I watched her hang up her washing.  

When she bends down, her ass is always high in the air.  

Fuck, is she teasing me? 

Doing more surveys.  

Bongo is at his best.  

Faith wouldn’t fuck him.  

She slept in his room for up to a year. 

And Bongo never fucked her.  

She has the tightest ass.  

And her tits are gigantic.  

In a leather mini skirt, she’d be dangerous.  

A pull up red bra. 

I’d be coming in my pants. 

She knows she has nymph predilections.  

They just need to be tapped into.  

And that’s what I’m doing here.  

Had my work-out.  

Felt good.  

The stomach lets me down all the time.  

Need to watch the crunches, nursing a hernia. 

Don’t feel the pill is that intense today. 

When I spoke to Wolf Mask, I felt animated.  

But even coffee can do that to me.  

Working on the stomach. 

Working on the chest too.  

Can only tighten up the flab. 

Wolf Mask used to take steroids in Nam and lost sixty kilos.  

He says if I keep on taking this shit, it will shed the weight.  

He said something about it stimulating my metabolism. 

I’ll believe it when I see it.  

No real dry mouth.  

Not peeing as much.  

A solid work-out.  

You could always work harder at it. 

Walking, that will aid in the slimming process. 

I won’t weigh myself.  

That would be indulging. 

Being on the drug is indulging enough.  

Day five.  

If I was really committed, I would have been working-out hard many months ago.  

I just didn’t have the motivation.  

I’m giving all the credit to Duromine.  

Written 12000 words in five days. 

Never in my wildest dreams could I sustain that pace of writing.  

Three hundred words was my limit.  

So something is happening.  

I’m waiting for something even bigger.  

I can’t see it yet.  

‘You won’t in five days,’ says Wolf Mask.  

Be patient.  

Be respectful.  

Be true.  

And keep on walking.  

You need to pull your own weight too, said Duromine, ‘I can’t do all the work for you.’  

I’m hearing you, I really am.  

Dina Divine is inspiring me today.  

She’s plugging a dildo in her Latin pussy. 

She’s a work of art.  

I like art.  

And I’m browsing this gallery with keen interest.  

Not seeing Rosa. 

Might call in on her tonight.  

Isolation is the best way for now.  

It’s a tough gig in some ways.  

It’s getting more tolerable. 

Eating lots of fruit today. 

Better attack that apple.  

Can’t be complacent.  

Right?  

You didn’t have an apple yesterday.  

Thanks for reminding me.  

Me and healthy food don’t get along.  

‘With that attitude you’ll never lose weight.’  

Readjusting, all the time.  

Losing weight is a science.  

It’s a commitment.  

It’s all or nothing.  

You really need to want to lose weight.  

Stop being a loser.  

Don’t be a defeatist.  

Get back on track and take control of your life.  

Well that’s the plan.  

Rent day.  

Don’t forget to pay rent.  

Getting so forgetful these days.  

Feeling great.  

Ran the Duromine into the ground.  

Fifteen kilometres later. 

‘Fuck this is good shit, thanks Dr. Kilaji.’  

Thought I’d put in more miles with a little help from my friend.  

It might help me sleep.  

Thoughts the whole way, I’m going to lose weight.  

I walked fast and hard.  

Duromine helped me every step along the way.  

Not so moody.  

Let Bongo slam the door.  

I’d like to stay in my room tonight. 

I can’t get angry.  

I need to vent out my frustrations here.  

I can’t do it in the real world, it would be ruinous. 

All quiet now.  

But once Faith starts cooking.  

It’s noise for the next three hours.  

Bongo is a cunt.  

I want to tell him that.  

But he’d play dumb and pretend he doesn’t understand.  

He’ll make me out to be the bad person.  

It’s his specialty.  

He uses black magic. 

He’s using it on me.  

These Africans live for black magic. 

They are tuned to it and practice it.  

The blacks don’t like the whites. 

It’s that simple.  

They are not grateful for being here.  

They think they are special. 

Help out the starving Africans.  

They haven’t stopped putting their hands out since.  

See, this is where I vent.  

Bought some salmon, avocado and lettuce.  

I must keep the diet clean.  

It’s the only chance I have of losing weight.  

Keep away from cheap noodles and lots of oil.  

Eat well, live well.  

Walk well.  

I’m trying my best.  

Diet is a big part of it.  

Master good eating, that’s half the battle.  

I don’t feel wired.  

It’s been a gentle day.  

I’ve worked out for about six hours today.  

I’ve been walking for a solid year.  

My knee felt crap today.  

But on the gear, I walked with confidence.  

Duromine is helping with everything.  

Even my shoulder joints are feeling great with high repetitions.  

What can’t this drug do? 

I think Bongo will be on his best behaviour tonight.  

I can always migrate into the spare room.  

Paid my rent.  

I don’t care about anything but losing weight.  

It’s a full-time job.  

I’m in a fair position to make a good stab of it.  

Don’t lose faith. 

I’ve got both my ear plugs in.  

I don’t want to get upset.  

I can’t afford it.  

I’m minimizing my stress.  

I don’t want the Africans to fuck with me.  

I can’t fuck with them.  

‘Don’t you dare me.’  

I wouldn’t Faith, I’d lose.  

She is proud of being a freeloader.  

It’s the most natural thing in the world.  

And Bongo is normalizing it.  

They are a fucked-up couple.  

Faith is always knocking on Bongo’s door.  

He’ll open it (loud noise), she’ll talk to him (loud noise) then he’ll slam the door (loud noise). 

But ear plugs.  

They might just save my life.   

Had a shower with my ear plugs in.  

Some people wear shower caps, I wear ear plugs. 

I tried to massage myself and washed myself clean.  

It’s all part of the ritual.  

I put hot water on my muscles.  

Trying to drain out the pain.  

Also massaged my muscles. 

This is therapy.  

I need to be good to myself.  

The African dogs are quiet.  

But Bongo could flare up any moment.  

So I’ll blast him with Wolf Mask radio.  

I’m feeling much more positive.  

I spent a bit of cash for my food but I’m eating less of it. 

Duromine is a real special lady.  

I might buy her some flowers.  

‘Just buy yourself fruit and eat it every day.’  

See, I’ve been told.  

I looked in the mirror, still got those love handles.  

I once looked at the head waiter and admired his love handles, ‘glad I’m not like that fucker.’  

He also had no hair.  

And now I’m a fat fuck.  

In our youth, our judgements are harsh.  

That head waiter was a manager.  

He didn’t let love handles get in the way of a good position.  

He was weird and creepy.  

He was doing his thing with his love handles.  

Now I have love handles.  

Payback’s a bitch, right? 

‘Stay the course,’ said Duromine, ‘and I’ll make those love handles vanish.’  

Promises, promises.  

‘You’ll see.’  

Believe it when I see it.  

But at least I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago.  

And that can’t be a bad thing.  

Day six tomorrow.  

Today has been a better day.  

Tomorrow can only be better.  

Didn’t have dry mouth.  

Wasn’t pissing as much.  

Things are levelling out.  

Day six. 

It’s promising.  

You need to be realistic.  

You won’t lose any weight in the first week.  

You can’t expect that.  

Also this way you won’t be disappointed.  

The days are busy.  

No siesta today.  

I’ve worked-out enough to help me just pass out.  

You need to counter the poison you pump into your system by pumping in  

good nutritious food and pumping up the weights.  

I’m feeling far more focused.  

That’s a bonus.  

I can keep my concentration longer.  

I may eat a sandwich soon.  

I've been eating fruit all day.  

Last night I had the craving for a snack.  

I resisted.  

I had to. 

The body wants more calories.  

It’s fucking with me.  

I have an addictive personality.  

It wants the drugs, but it also wants the food.  

At least I’m not bonging on the couch, talking shit and food bingeing.  

I don’t have scaly skin or boils.  

I walk and think these great lines.  

Then I put them down and they come across as lame.  

Candy Rivers come on baby light my fire.  

Evenings are a time to reflect on how it’s all going.  

My laptop fell on the floor last night.  

‘Bongo you fucker.’  

I should have been in my room doing what I do in my room.  

But Bongo the African from the Congo is slowly driving me crazy.  

He and Faith shared his room for a long time.  

The door was opening and closing every few minutes.  

Bongo is a cunt.  

He’s a dumb cunt.  

‘You don’t know who I am.’  

I know who you are.  

You are a fake refugee and a lazy cunt.  

‘I’m in Australia for work.’  

Well why didn’t you fill out the application form I gave you for roadying? 

Because he’s fucking lazy. 

That’s my Duromine rant.  

I haven’t finished with Faith.  

I fantasized putting the knife to her.  

I have a screwdriver handy in my room.  

I’ll fuck stab Bongo if he tries to stab me.  

He’s a refugee who was a militant who has killed many people.  

That’s what they do.  

It all begins with the slamming of the door.  

Africans are backward people.  

He is the stupidest fuck I’ve ever met.  

And Faith is holding on to her meal ticket.  

‘Keep your nose out of other people’s business.’ 

So then why the fuck did you say you were from the Congo when you are from Kenya? 

‘I’ve learnt not to trust people; they’ll use the information against you.’ 

Exactly. 

I got on the Department of Border Control website and tipped them off that  

an over-stayer was staying here with me.  

They haven’t acted upon the two tip offs.  

Useless fucks. 

It was either report her or eventually be driven crazy, when anything could happen.  

I bet Faith tortured kittens for fun back in Kenya.  

Just had dinner, 11.20 pm. 

Six pieces of bread topped with healthy stuff.  

Nothing cooked in oil.  

Told Faith I couldn’t hear her, ‘Got ear plugs in because Bongo is always slamming the door.’  

She just looked at me like a stuffed mullet. 

‘Yes, so sorry I couldn’t hear you, and yes, I’ve been eating, see, healthy food.’  

I lifted up a bag of salad leaves.  

I’m really good at playing the game.  

We are both polite to each other but hate each other’s guts.  

Bongo’s the same.  

But he’s more aggressive.  

I have to admit, I have a soft spot for Faith. 

At least you can reason with her.  

And she also understands English, not like that fucktard.  

One day I asked Bongo if the pots in a box on the fridge were part of the household.  

This was when the Vietnamese refugee- same age with me, was living here, Bongo’s ‘best friend’.  

‘Of course, use everything,’ said Bongo.  

Two weeks later the Vietnamese asked who was using his pot, which was in use on the stove. Congo Bongo said I could use it, I told him, a little runt and another freeloader and fake refugee.  

‘Only use the pots that are hanging up in that area,’ said Congo Bongo, pointing to the pots hanging on hooks.  

It was in perfect English.  

But you said.... 

Didn’t matter, I was trumped by the dumbass in perfect English. 

He didn’t need to deny saying that he never told me to use those pots.  

Then the Vietnamese threw the pot at me with the vegetables that I was cooking.  

Grateful immigrants? 

Another time the Vietnamese accused my Nepalese buddy of not throwing out the rubbish.  

‘Next time you leave it, I’ll throw it outside your room,’ he said. 

Congo Bongo silently retreated to his room. was silent, hiding in his room.  

He could have defended the Nepalese. 

Instead he just hid in his room. 

Why ruin a good thing by defending the Nepalese student by saying, ‘I never throw the rubbish out?’  

He’s a calculating son of a bitch.  

He is one of those Aliens in District 9.  

Anything he can scavenge, he will.  

Hay I’m just offloading.  

It’s not easy taking speed to lose weight.  

It’s quite a commitment.  

And I’m the fucker wearing ear plugs, not Bongo or Faith.  

Doesn’t it say it all? 

I think so. 

And before you call me a racist fucker, I’ll tell you politely now to fuck off.  

Day six. 

I woke up early. 

I don’t care if I didn’t get eight hours sleep. 

About five. 

Trump only sleeps four hours a day. 

Same with Wolf Mask. 

I just wanted to wake up. 

I was sick of tossing and turning.  

I have weight to lose.  

Had some wonderful rants yesterday. 

I had those ear plugs in for about five hours. 

Bongo is king. 

He’s a retard.  

I’ll blast some music soon.  

I must be careful because Faith isn’t shy about knocking on my door 

 and telling me to turn down my music. 

She’s confronted me a few times early in the morning in the kitchen.  

She’s not only a freeloader but a nasty freeloader.  

‘I will make you die a slow death, that is certain, you’ll see.’ 

Threats, threats and more of them.  

Wish the Africans would just fuck off back to Africa.  

They are a vein, flashy and shallow race of people.  

Didn’t snack last night.  

My dinner was not only healthy but satisfying.  

You are what you eat.  

I had six slices of bread stacked with goodness.  

It filled me up.  

It was balanced.  

Low in carbohydrates.  

Didn’t feel fat and bloated after eating it.  

Got my tax back today. 

Medicare levy ate into it.  

But I’m not about to complain.  

Some are better than nothing. 

I just wanted to wake up early.  

The bitch is usually awake by 6 am, doing her nun thing.  

Congo Bongo also reads a bible.  

Surprised he can read, he’s such a dumb fuck.  

Religion is holding back the blacks. 

God will keep on slaughtering them.  

Yes, god is listening and he’s still slaughtering you. 

The Africans just don’t get it that praying will not protect you from 

 a wild primitive slashing a machete in front of your face. 

Faith thinks she prayed herself out of homelessness.  

I just think she was lucky. 

Bongo has a reputation for handing out cash to abos and other African sluts. 

Some of them were quite hot too.  

Faith is just another slut he’s decided to pay.  

It’s Bongo’s way of atonement for killing his fellow Africans in the Congo.  

He once brought in a Vietnamese hooker, a heroin addict, for a few days.  

Trang, our landlord, wasn’t very impressed.  

That’s Bongo for you.  

Always trying to alleviate his loneliness. 

I assert my right to hate. 

‘Stay positive.’  

Up to a point.  

Being positive means you have no right to be negative.  

It’s censorship. 

It’s another way of saying, I don’t like what you are saying.  

‘Keep positive.’  

Yeah, right.  

I popped the pill at 6 am. 

 

Don’t be lazy. Don’t let Congo Bongo intimidate you.  

‘You ask anyone who I am outside.’  

I don’t need to.  

I saw you at the Muslim grocery store handing over cash to that dodgy Afghan.  

You are a drug dealer.  

How else can you support Faith on the low income of welfare support.  

I am tired but now’s the time to test the potency of the pill within a four-hour time frame.  

Let’s see if the walk is like The Million Dollar Man.  

I’ve been having a few of these Lee Major moments.  

And I love it.  

Need to buy some vape coils.  

Got my tax return.  

Time to keep on top of not smoking.  

It costs me money.  

But as much as I spent on cigarettes per week.  

Thanks Barry.  

You helped me quit smoking.  

You ripped me off selling tobacco, but you also did me a  

good turn by sending me the vaping machine.  

It works.  

It worked.  

Now time to get back to the job at hand, of losing weight.  

I’m having a mini crash. 

That’s ok. 

I don’t want to be invincible all the time.  

I don’t mind being vulnerable.  

I feel sleepy. 

Strange, hey! 

You can’t miss out on sleep.  

That’s what my body is telling me.  

It’s still early days.  

Duromine has double and triple kick-ins.  

Just slept three hours. 

Three hours of speed you ask. 

I was tired. 

Had ear plugs in and loud sleeping music. 

A wank as well, totally relieved all the pent-up aggression. 

Pissed a hell of a lot in my bucket.  

So the pill must still be working.  

Feel like I need crap.  

This pill is doing things that it shouldn’t.  

Falling asleep on it after only just taking it.  

Had a mandarin and a banana, to settle my stomach. 

Now back onto coffee, finishing off what was left in my cup.  

Who knows, it might kick it in again. 

Faith is around.  

I can hear her singing. 

Bongo isn’t slamming doors.  

He could be, but my ears were plugged. 

It’s Wednesday. 

I’ve been on the pills since last Friday.  

Wow, what a week, is all I can say. 

I’m having doubts. 

Curiosity killed the cat.  

Ginger fluff ball is playing outside my room.  

It does bring me delight.  

I threw a can of tuna in the garden yesterday. 

Hope fluff ball found it and ate it.  

I hate wastage. 

I have my doubts, as I was saying.  

Is this pill only getting me high and tricking me into losing weight? 

 

Does it work on some kind of voodoo principle?  

instilling me with superpowers, that not only make me fly faster than a 

 speeding bullet but also help me shed vast amounts of fat that mere  

mortals would only dream of. 

We’ll see.  

Looked at my tired old tits, that sagged.  

The sag line is disappearing as I give my chest a lift from thousands of bench presses. 

I must have done a thousand of them yesterday. 

No wonder I’m feeling tired. 

I think I’m 24 again.  

Surprised my body didn’t curl up and die in a heap.  

The dog is playing hard to get. 

‘Thanks for being quiet.’ 

He’s got bags and other junk outside his room. 

In his eyes, he’s perfect.  

He won the lottery.  

Left a refugee camp. 

And is now set up for life in Australia.  

How could he do wrong? 

It’s inconceivable.  

Is he picking up on my evil vibes?  

I asked him if it rained.  

I heard rain while taking a second crap.  

‘I don’t know,’ he said in perfect English.  

He’s not playing the dumb primitive who is here to entertain the whites.  

He’s reversed the role.  

Reminds me of that big African at the backpackers.  

A territorial cunt who fucked all the white chicks.  

If you got in his way, he wasn’t shy to let you know. 

He was another crappy specimen of Africa.  

I rode out the tempest.  

I’m glad I did.  

I can’t afford a run in with the black dog.  

He’s not into constructive dialogue.  

He’s changed since that evil bitch has been here.  

It’s as if she’s given him some pride in black power.  

He used to be so compliant.  

Still a sly dog.  

Now he’s a cocky dog.  

The best thing for a cocky dog is a bullet.  

Put it out of its misery.  

Duromine, you surprise me every day. 

Congo Bongo is being nice to me today.  

One small blessing.  

I will go for a walk.  

Rosa wasn’t answering.  

‘She’s probably asleep.’  

Black Lives Matters.  

A note to self.  

Expand on this in San Francisco of the 90’s.  

I’ve lost four kilograms. 

‘You still got the forty after the thirty,’ says Dan the chemist.  

I was salivating.  

Mind over matter he says.  

He says the weight machine works.  

Mostly likely better than the one at the doctor’s clinic which can fluctuate in results.  

The need was under 110 kilos. 

It was more like 109.5.  

I had heavy pants on and socks, accounting for another half kilogram perhaps.  

‘We’ll see you at the same time next week to see how you are progressing.’  

He knows I’m exercising hard.  

‘It’s methamphetamine.’  

Thanks for reminding me. 

He has the packets on the display shelf.  

I’m using the mid-range. 

He says it’s usual to up to the 40mgs the following month. 

‘Just prove to the doctor that it’s working.’  

That’s my plan. 

If I can lose another four kilos in a week, I should get to about 106.  

It’s all doable.  

Today that was proved.  

Not even a week and I’ve lost four kilos.  

Walked 15 kilometres.  

I just powered it.  

What can’t you do at prescribed speed? 

If I keep up the long and fast walk, and stick to eating lots of fruit, the pounds should be shed naturally. 

Oh, Esther was looking and sounding sexy.  

Wonder how nice her pussy is.  

She has a pretty face that would look wonderful locked on the end of my cock.  

Maybe she’ll make eyes at me.  

The other one did and she’s a sexy Vietnamese. 

I’ll have to take note as the pounds drop off.  

At 95 I might be cocky enough to flirt. 

‘Think I’ll marry the fruit lady,’ I said to Esther.  

‘Be careful what you wish for.’  

I wish to lick your pussy, I thought.  

Maybe she’s a thought reader.  

Hope so.  

Depressive thoughts enter your vision on the walks. 

I can only walk faster.  

And forget about it.  

It’s time to stay focused. 

No room for negative or sad thoughts. 

Especially when you are trying to lose 20 kilos.  

That would be my happy aim.  

It’s a lot of weight not to have to carry around.  

Boy my joints would be thanking me.  

I’m feeling tired from the walk.  

I had some more fruit after the walk.  

It keeps me full until I’m ready for my evening sandwich.  

I have a long way to go but I’ve seen the results. 

Great stuff.  

I carried my bottle of sauce and two litres of orange juice. 

and that’s quite a bit of weight and over six days I’ve lost that from my body. 

It’s really quite amazing.  

What would take a month of hard training and work, took only one week on speed.  

I truly need a little rest.  

Tonight’s walk was tiring.  

And in the rain.  

The long and powerful walks of 15 kilometres up, are what are going to help you lose weight. 

I’ve only lost the weight I’ve put on in the past six weeks.  

Winter weight I’m guessing.  

Imagine two months on Duromine.  

Anything is possible.  

Day seven. 

Just washed down another pill. 

Weighed in last night at my local chemist. 

Yes, down four kilograms.  

I'm 110 kilos. 

It’s really working.  

Four kilograms in six days is heavy duty weight loss. 

Woke up at 9 am today. 

Caught up on my sleep.  

I’m still too heavy. 

If I can get under 100, I’ll feel lighter. 

I’ll feel better.  

I need a coffee. 

I feel I need one. 

Migrated back to my room in the middle of the night. 

I can’t get caught in the spare room. 

I’ll be asked to leave. 

I was tripping till 11 pm last night. 

Decided to do some weights. 

I had a good sweat.  

Did 1000 push-ups with 20 kg weights.  

Each work-out helps. 

I’m burning calories.  

At about 11 pm. 

Really enjoyed my dinner. 

It’s like breaking fast.  

Mark didn’t like my new stuff.  

I’ll make him like it. 

It’s more therapy for me. 

If I can capture the rollercoaster aspect of it. 

But then Chris loved it.  

The racist stuff is certainly better.  

Four kilos. 

That is fucking great.  

I eased up on my diary last night.  

Just needed time out.  

Day seven.  

It’s all about mental health space.  

That’s what this diary is all about.  

But I’m enjoying the possibilities. 

The kitchen is getting messy. 

Good to see Faith showing appreciation by helping Bongo with the cleaning.  

All he has to say is, clean or I don’t pay your rent.  

Told the couple I had lost four kilos.  

They think I’m a crackhead.  

They don’t really care.  

Africans, too self-absorbed to worry about what other people are doing. 

I give them updates.  

Try to make them feel inclusive.  

You think you are a crackhead. 

Loud techno music. 

Living in Trang’s granny flat rocks.  

I’ll move the world here.  

A wonderful rainbow.  

Deep purples. 

A real rainbow.  

Made my peace with the roadside crosses.  

Had my non-slip heavy duty boots on.  

It was a long walk.  

I feel I can push harder.  

You have another three weeks to do that. 

Then there’s 40 mg of Duromine. 

‘If your doctor can see you're doing well, he’ll prescribe you that.’  

I’d have thought you’d drop the dosage.  

Apparently not. 

It helps weighing myself at the chemist.  

Luckily Danial was there. 

He knows the drill.  

It's all about getting the info before the doctor even gives it to you.  

Makes you sound like you know what you are talking about. 

Drinking coffee now. 

Slow start to the day. 

I’m less anal about cleaning.  

I’ll leave it the primitives to clean their own shit. 

For a freeloader, she shows zero appreciation. 

But Bongo loves the evenings eating the meal Faith has prepared for him.  

They eat together in his dirty filthy room.  

I have to listen to the two primitives talking.  

Faith is securing her freeloading status.  

She needs to make Bongo feel all gooey and wanted inside.  

I call it the black magic session.  

Got so much for me last night, that I relocated into the other room.  

Why doesn’t she invite Bongo to eat in her room? 

Because she doesn’t want chicken bones all over her floor.  

Bongo throws his scraps on the floor. 

When he relocated from his last room, the one where Faith is now,  

I saw him sweep up chicken bones.  

It was disgusting.  

Two years of chicken bones.  

The mattress was filthy and stained from his food.  

Trang can’t keep up with Bongo.  

He is downgrading her property.  

He’ll never clean.  

He's too lazy. 

‘Clean up that mess outside your room,’ I said to him, ‘before Madam kicks us out.’  

So he swept the mess outside his door through the house, making everything messier.  

You need to take methamphetamines just to deal with Bongo.  

You need to take Valium just to deal with Faith.  

Bongo hasn’t woken up yet. 

He loves his new room with his noisy door.  

Four kilos.  

Had my crap.  

Coffee is going well.  

I wasn’t thinking about taking Duromine today. 

Got a response from Mark, and that reminded me to take the pill. 

This journal will spice up.  

It's my therapy.  

I’m getting used to Duromine.  

You just can’t lose the kind of weight I did over a week with hard work.  

You need Duromine to do the hard work.  

Duromine is slow to kick in.  

Listening to Trump.  

Gosh he’s a storyteller.  

I can’t say I went hard on the exercise the first few days of my dieting. 

Only picked up pace in the last three days. 

Yet four kilograms have gone. 

It’s a miracle. 

I thought maybe one kilogram. 

Two at max. 

But four! 

Way on track.  

I’m not even in the second week.  

They say you lose less towards the end of the month.  

I’m on track for sixteen kilograms in a month.  

That would make me much lighter. 

‘You’ll feel better losing weight,’ said Bongo.  

I’ve been hard on him.  

‘And drink lemon juice.’ 

Not had that over the last few days.  

Better get back to it.  

Duromine is slowly kicking in.  

I’m doing this to lose weight.  

I keep on thinking about Wrinkle Lip. 

He was a glutton.  

He’d snort a gram of crack at a time.  

He was slim.  

He didn’t like fat people like me.  

Well I’m playing catch up Wrinkle Lip.  

With the help of Duromine, I’m going to be a leaner and meaner machine.  

Day seven.  

Don’t stop at 4 kilos.  

Aim for ten. 

Then you’ll really notice the power of Duromine.  

I’m six kilos closer to losing ten. 

Danial, the chemist, has no doubt about the efficiency of the drug.  

He knows things I don’t.  

‘It’s methamphetamine.’  

That’s the magic word. 

At least I’m not smoking a pipe, bonging on the couch and binge eating.  

It really didn’t come out well. 

I’ve got private medical cover now. 

I don’t want to be a victim.  

I got 30 bucks back off the drug from Medibank. 

They couldn’t wait to see me leave. 

I had said too much.  

But they want me to lose weight.  

I’d say Duromine is one of their big sellers.  

It’s the pride and joy product of this pharmacy.  

And I want more.  

It’s a wonder drug.  

It’s a miracle drug.  

Get high but lose weight. 

Get high but eat well.  

Get high but don’t smoke marijuana.  

Hay Bongo is awake. 

I really do like him.  

He’s been wonderful putting up with me.  

The Vietnamese was just a cunt.  

I’m a born optimist.  

Imagine how optimistic I’ll be if I weigh 20 kilograms less.  

You are worried that week two you are going to level out. 

No, Duromine starts to be more effective as week two kicks in.  

Because by then you know the rules of engagement.  

I have a water bottle.  

I think it’s about 12 kilos when filled with water. 

If I had a weight machine, I would know. 

I may buy one from Chemist Warehouse. 

Now if I can lose the weight of the water bottle, I’ll be happy. 

The water bottle is about 15, or less.  

More like ten kilos.  

But that’s a lot of weight.  

Mind over matter, said Dan. 

It’s just that simple.  

He sees I’m taking it seriously. 

4 kilos loss is not shabby.  

In six days.  

It’s great work.  

My diet has drastically altered.  

This is the first time I’ve ever taken dieting seriously.  

I thought often about it. 

Fasting, that word put me off dieting forever.  

The techno music is on. 

‘Yes, I’m taking methamphetamines.’  

Bought from the doctor of course. 

‘Oh, good.’ That’s Bongo’s thoughtful voice, quiet and engaging. 

‘Take it,’ said Faith after I told her how I lost four kilograms. 

She has given me her blessings to take the pills.  

Trust me, that really meant the world to me.  

And take it I will. 

You never know what is going to happen while taking Duromine.  

You know one thing: it’s always going to be good listening to music. 

What if I lose another four kilos over the next week? 

What if? 

It’s definitely in the realms of can do.  

Eight kilos lighter.  

Eight less pulling my body down.  

As if gravity isn’t enough.  

Now imagine 20 kilos less.  

I’ll be able to fly.  

The wind will blow me over.  

Every waking hour is preoccupied with losing weight.  

‘Chill, I’ll do all the work for you.’  

Thanks Duromine.  

Met a crackhead on the bus.  

‘Duromine.’  

The way he said it.  

It meant something.  

It’s what you use when you can’t score on the street.  

He got me thinking.  

If a crack head spoke highly of it.  

‘Duromine.’  

Just one word.  

You knew there was some merit in taking it.  

‘Duromine.’  

The way he said it.  

It had some power.  

It was potent.  

If it got a crack head’s attention, it must be good shit. 

Wrinkle Lips was slim because he was smoking crack. 

Thanks Jock. 

I eventually found out.  

How can you be so slim in your fifties? 

Crack. 

Everyone is using it to fit in their dresses.  

I want to lose 40 pounds for an upcoming wedding so I can look good in my dress.  

Housewives, the majority. 

They feel like fat dumplings.  

They feel worthless. 

And even when they lose the forty pounds, they are still ugly.  

But that’s not the point.  

It’s all about self-esteem.  

Just threw out the rubbish. 

The primitives are dirty fucks. 

I had to sweep up around the bin, a total mess.  

Then I had to throw out their rubbish. 

Then mop around where their bin is. 

I managed to clean my bin as well.  

These primitives are spending too much time dressing up and not enough on the fun stuff.  

I hadn’t cleaned for a few days. 

You could say I have been preoccupied.  

Bongo is out today.  

So is Faith.  

Reprieve.  

I need to lose weight alone.  

It won’t happen.  

Let’s see what Ms. Duromine is up to today.  

Dark thoughts crept in early. 

Means they won’t creep in later. 

Feeling aches and pains from workout.  

Am I contributing to my crippledom with excessive weights? 

It’s why I’ve got a bad neck in the first place. 

To be accepted in society, we’ll go to extreme lengths to look good. 

I’m doing this for myself.  

It’s like an experiment.  

No fuzzy head from taking it.  

It’s pure.  

It has to be MDMA.  

Don’t tell the crack heads that.  

No impurities in this shit. 

It’s made for housewives.  

They only expect the highest-grade addictive medication. 

I am tired of being high. 

It’s like having to babysit your emotions all the time. 

‘Let me take care of that,’ said Duromine, ‘you’ll find me kind and merciful.’ 

It’s true, she’s coming through with her side of the bargain.  

I can’t deny that one little bit.  

It’s four hours since I’ve popped the pill.  

It should be kicking in soon.  

If it hasn’t already.  

It’s kicked in alright.  

It usually tapers off for a few hours and decides to pay me a visit later in the afternoon.  

It's a slow release, to keep the cravings abated, all day long.  

I don’t have the urge to eat after excessive and prolonged exercise. 

I’ve done some cleaning.  

It’s coming back to me like it did day one and two.  

I’m cleaning my table.  

General cleaning.  

I’m impressed.  

Fake it until you make it. 

Today could be a big day.  

Imagine if you were one kilogram lighter than from yesterday.  

Don’t expect too much. 

You might have put on one kilo since yesterday.  

Don’t be a slave to the weight machine.  

It’s like time, elusive and will drive you crazy.  

‘Come back next week and weigh yourself,’ said Dan.  

Makes perfect sense.  

Trang the green thumb has made an appearance in the garden. 

Hi Trang, I say, looking out my window.  

She has this garden that wouldn’t look out of place in Vietnam.  

It has guava, mango, papaya, lemon trees.  

And other plants I’m not even aware of.  

Oh yes and banana trees.  

This shit isn’t supposed to grow in Mediterranean conditions, but Trang makes it grow. 

Just hit by a steam train.  

Had another shit.  

Cleaned up my table.  

Now walking like a cripple.  

Just when I thought I had walked Duromine out of my system, she resurfaces.  

How I know is because the techno music sounds so fucking wonderful. 

A solid three hour walk later, I was feeling mellow.  

Now Duromine is showing up for the evening.  

Hey, not complaining.  

Was a great walk. 

Weighed myself at the chemist, still one ten.  

I was hoping for one nine. That’s one hundred and nine.  

It was since the diarrhea went that I put on the weight.  

Diarrhea helps me maintain my weight. 

It cleared up a little after I left the last job. 

This explains why I’ve put on weight.  

I miss having the runs, it’s a great way to maintain your weight.  

How do I get diarrhea? 

Can anyone help? 

Chronic fatigue. 

Been a good day walking.  

Still got that growth on balls.  

Must be a rash.  

It will go away. 

Least of my worries. 

I’m in Duromine limbo.  

It’s taken up residence.  

Dark thoughts of addiction.  

Can’t deny I was a downer kid.  

Took it to sleep.  

Took it mostly for kicks.  

But I’m taking Duromine for my health. 

Not like I can get unlimited access to it over the counter.  

I'd be just as happy to be off it. 

Let's see what magic the pill can produce in the next week.  

I think the walking will kick-start the fat burning.  

If I can lose another two kilos, I’ll be happy.  

The long walks are really kicking my metabolism.  

Take it easy.  

You have done better than most in the first week.  

So don’t get hung up on numbers. 

Eat well, live well and lose weight.  

Day eight. 

Didn’t binge eat last night.  

Day eight I’m a seasoned user now. 

Slept from 11 to 12. 

Then I watched some movies and continued my sleep. 

Everything has changed.  

I haven’t dropped much weight. 

It was 106, the lowest weight at the peak of summer.  

Let's aim for 99 at the peak of winter. 

I’m an optimist. 

Yesterday was a watershed. 

I don’t know why. 

It’s like I’m a member now.  

Eight days. 

Day eight. 

When I get back to 106, I’ll be feeling much better.  

Obesity is a disease. 

Remember that. 

You are doing this to save your life.  

85. 

That’s your ideal weight. 

For my height, the ideal weight is 74 kgs. 

Is it possible?  

It sure is. 

I need a coffee. 

Only one.  

I feel better.  

Don’t know why.  

The long walks are kicking things in. 

I’m back on Facebook listening to Wolf Mask. 

Yesterday the black dog came to visit me.  

 

My chemist wasn't interested. 

He was dealing with a guy who has epilepsy. 

It must be good shit because he seemed pissed that he couldn’t get his repeat.  

The chemist says that you couldn’t sweat much out in the winter. 

That’s good to know.  

I need to buy scales.  

So 80 kg is the weight to aim for. 

That is 30 kg lighter. 

Or sixty pounds.  

My joints will be thanking me for it. 

Day eight.  

I’m hopeful. 

I can’t say why.  

But I feel people won’t be calling me big boy again.  

I don’t think I weighed myself for over twenty years. 

I was afraid of the scales. 

The scale.  

I didn’t think I had a weight problem.  

I had no idea how much I weighed. 

I weighed in at 111 when I got back from the Philippines. 

At least I had something to gauge my weight with.  

A figure.  

It was 111.  

Diets scared me.  

She’ll be right mate.  

I didn’t have a weight problem. 

I’ll think about diet when I have to.  

Now I’m thinking. 

My ideal weight is shown in a video of me in Indonesia. 

I had diarrhea. 

Very bad.  

It just kept the weight off. 

It was a great weight loss.  

It was this time last Friday I took the pill.  

I’ve learned a lot about myself since.  

Some people cry, I just shed weight. 

I must be patient.  

Do the crime, do the time. 

That’s it.  

Faith is singing.  

I’m not pissed off.  

I used to be. 

She hasn’t got a worry in the world. 

She lives by her name. 

Without Bongo, she’d be faithless.  

Duromine isn’t anywhere to be seen. 

Last night she was thumping in my brain.  

I ate last night. 

The bread was stale. 

Nothing tastes good. 

But I didn’t snack.  

Shit was all over the place today.  

First day of week two.  

That’s day eight. 

The Duromine Diaries.  

Thanks Wolf Mask.  

Works well for me.  

Once I get down to 105. 

That’s when I can celebrate. 

It means I’m seeing light at the end of the tunnel.  

The dancing of numbers. 

It’s real.  

You can’t neglect the numbers. 

They never lie.  

Now that your eyes are open, pay attention.  

Faith is singing.  

I can’t say I care for it.  

But I won’t let it upset me.  

Once Duromine kicks in she’ll be history.  

Bongo is slamming the door.  

He’s a dog.  

I better be careful of him.  

He’s out for his own kind.  

He’s as bad as Faith, you can’t talk to him.  

He’ll play dumb.  

Why bother, you think.  

Bongo just thinks I’m a whiner. 

Maybe I am. 

But knowing Bongo, he’ll do what he thinks is best for Bongo. 

I’ve seen his power. 

He’s pulled off some big ones. 

He has more power in his dumb ass than he lets on.  

He doesn’t throw rubbish out. 

When he cleans, he makes a nice mess for me to clean up. 

He’s a primitive refugee and can do what he wants. 

What has he got to lose?  

Why was he a refugee? 

We’ll never know.  

His English isn’t good enough.  

So how the fuck did he get asylum in Australia if he can’t speak English.  

I just shake my head.  

He’s a mystery, just as much as Faith is.  

He just slammed the door again.  

He doesn’t get it.  

‘What is your mission?’ 

Good question dumbass.  

I know what your mission is.  

I might have to see Trang who will put him in his place.  

Don’t get angry. 

It’s what he wants you to do.  

He doesn’t want you here. 

He’ll slam the door because it’s his primitive right.  

He doesn’t care about it. 

‘You are a good man.’  

He always says that after I tell him I cleaned up his shit.  

‘You are a good man.’ 

You are smarter than you let on Bongo.  

I’m watching you.  

You want me to go to the room next door so Trang can see me and kick me out.  

‘Bongo, we need to talk.’  

He’ll put on the blank primitive face. 

Survival skills.  

I’ve got him worked up a few times. 

One day he got all upset with the flood in the kitchen.  

Instead of mopping it up, like you do, he accused me of it.  

Then he went looking for Trang to complain about me flooding the floor.  

Clean it up, I said.  

No, I’ll tell Trang everything.  

Trang’s sister was around, not Trang, and the sister didn't want anything to do with Bongo. 

I ended up mopping the floor.  

A leaky pipe. 

And Bongo remained king. 

It gives you an idea of who he is.  

He’s a selfish primitive asshole.  

I should go for a walk and escape the primitive asshole. 

He might ruin my day.  

I will speak to Trang.  

She needs to know.  

He needs to close the door quietly, all the time.  

Got back from a five-hour outing.  

Twenty kilometres.  

Slow and enjoyable.  

Let the pill slowly take its shape.  

Still incense, in sections.  

I rode it.  

I walked it.  

I weighed in at just under 110 at the chemist.  

I weighed in at 111 at the doctors.  

I’ll stick with the chemist weight machine.  

If Daniel uses it must be accurate, I said to the boys behind the drug counter.  

It’s the coolest bar I like to hang out at.  

I feel I know what to expect.  

Andy, the Vietnamese chemist and the Iraqi, were on.  

Man, I feel welcome there.  

They think I’m normal on Duromine.  

People who aren’t chemists think I’m just weird.  

Friday was a brilliant day.  

Left knee holding up.  

I won’t drink any more coffee.  

I don’t want to bring on another peak.  

The walk grounded me.  

Just as I was getting angry, I went out.  

Caught up with Rosa. 

‘Is that my husband’s umbrella?’ 

Winter has been hard on her. 

No Rosa, it’s my Bunnings umbrella.  

‘You have lost weight.’  

Her nose was running.  

She seemed ok.  

But I wasn’t invited inside for a coffee.  

I don’t want to go inside.  

It depresses me.  

I need to focus on losing weight.  

Rosa gave me her blessings. 

She seemed a bit skittery, but who isn’t these days?  

Day nine tomorrow.  

I just had some toast and eggs.  

Only three slices.  

And some fruit.  

I’ll hit the weights a bit later.  

Not now.  

I’ve done enough to help Duromine along.  

I’m feeling better after day eight.  

I feel I know now what to expect.  

It’s mucking me around emotionally.  

But I was mucked around emotionally before it.  

I’m here to lose weight.  

Don’t lose focus.  

 

Mind over matter.  

I was really expecting to lose another kilo over the last two days.  

Not so.  

Am I eating too much? 

Does my body want to hold onto its weight? 

Did the white bread shoot my diet? 

I don’t know.  

I’ll just keep on walking and see what happens.  

Day nine, I’m feeling slim.  

Lost the plot last night. 

Told my neighbour to stop slamming the door.  

I think it was a reasonable request.  

Was going to take the weekend off Duromine.  

But I’m getting results.  

It’s time for everyone to take a deep breath. 

Day nine could be easier than previous days. 

I need to lose weight.  

Faith could speak to the dog and say close the door gently. 

She could say that. 

She could smooth the way. 

But she never will. 

She wants conflict.  

Day nine.  

I’m feeling slim.  

Let's hope that idiot learned a lesson. 

He’s a dopey fuck.  

Not too smart.  

A sloth.  

But he could make trouble for me. 

He wants me to leave here. 

It nearly worked. 

You can’t reason with Africans. 

‘You will have a problem.’  

He whispered words. 

I could hear him from room. 

I got so angry I knocked hard on his wall. 

He reciprocated.  

My heart had palpitations.  

Dead of a heart attack, nearly.  

He is a black magician.  

He’s the black dog.  

But let's be positive. 

I’ll just pretend nothing went down.  

That aside, it’s time to do some weights and burn calories. 

Burn calories.  

That’s better.  

I didn’t have cravings last night.  

I think the walking is really helping.  

It’s been a big couple of days. 

Hay, you are Australian, born here, and have every right. 

Don’t forget that.  

He will get deported. 

You won’t. 

I thought I’d take the weekend off Duromine.  

But then I noticed how I felt and looked slimmer. 

Wouldn’t it be a crying shame. 

Bongo didn’t slam the door this morning.  

He is learning.  

 

I can’t throw away this chance. 

Duromine won out. 

I want to lose weight.  

There will be ups and downs.  

The dog got my heartbeat racing last night. 

He wants me to die of a heart attack.  

But that bowl of noodles really did me the world of good. 

There is the fear of success. 

Don’t fear it.  

Embrace it. 

Your boys at the chemist want you to succeed.  

Even I can see that. 

Andy is a wonderful man.  

I’ve grown fond of my pharmacists.  

I have become their experiment.  

‘Morning Faith,’ said the most cheerio tone.  

I really feel like Dr. Evil.  

Faith is singing.  

She’s in her own little world.  

I have to admire her sometimes.  

As to me, I’m looking trimmer.  

My stomach has flattened.  

It’s a joy to see.  

After eight days of hell. 

Day nine is revealing herself.  

A slimmer world.  

I don’t know where we are going with this.  

On the pill, I’m bitchy about the banging door.  

Off the pill, I’m bitchy about the banging door.  

 

I plan not to go on about it.  

It’s crowding my narrative.  

African’s are noisy fucks.  

Plain and simple.  

The pill has hijacked my personality. 

More updates.  

Except to say that I’m standing up for my rights.  

I have very few where I am.  

Banging doors.  

It was nearly the end of me last night.  

Had heart palpitations.  

They will kill me before the meds do.  

Update tomorrow.  

As I said, focus is out of the window.  

All I do is walk all day to avoid being around my noisy roommates. 

Maybe it’s time to seek other living arrangements.  

I can’t stay on Duromine with all this extra noise pollution.  

They are unreasonable.  

But they make out I’m unreasonable. 

Great weights session.  

Bought a scale.  

I’m at 110.5 

It’s not 114.  

Looking at the numbers just reminds me to keep at it.  

Even Wolf Mask says to continue the course. 

I might just have to.  

I may need to move back into this room.  

It’s further away from noisy roommates. 

He’s made it clear that he won’t shut or open the door quietly.  

Alas, I wear ear plugs all the time. 

Need to rectify this problem. 

It isn’t going away.  

Moving rooms means I’m closer to Faith’s room.  

She’s in and out like a crackhead.  

Ok, sleep is calling me.  

A man can’t even diet in peace.  

Sad days.  

I can smell death. 

No one wins against Africans.  

They are nothing like Afro-Americans, nothing.  

I’m getting smarter.  

I have the kitchen space to use.  

Being bottled in my room is unhealthy.  

I’ve migrated back to the kitchen.  

A large space, it’s better for my head space. 

Put the pill under your tongue. 

By the time the coating melted, I swallowed it. 

Let’s see if it kicks in quicker.  

Day ten now. 

Yesterday was a big walking day.  

Today will be a big day sculpturing myself with weights. 

Faith has gone to church. 

So it should be quiet.  

Wonder if I can buy an even better pair of ear plugs.  

Hiding in the room only made me feel trapped.  

Humans need lots of room to roam.  

I bought a scale, new atomizer and three coils and a dustpan that I broke in a rage, pre-Duromine.  

I’ve become very polite.  

The usual cockiness, overcompensation for being overweight (fat) has been beaten out of me by the heavy-duty pill. 

I’ve decided to continue taking the treatment.  

What have I got to lose? 

Versus what do I have to gain.  

It’s a no brainer.  

The first coffee went down well.  

It was nine degrees when I woke up.  

The cold is going to be a good friend of mine.  

I’ll lose weight when most are putting it on.  

That’s the plan.  

Redemption isn’t far away.  

I’m controlling my moods.  

Night-time I’m more sensitive than during the day. 

Earplugs and self-isolation! 

I cleaned up the spare room like I wasn’t even sleeping there. 

I can’t be arsed moving all my stuff, for now.  

Woke up at 9 o’clock.  

Duromine time.  

I need to take my morning crap then weigh myself.  

Aren’t I getting domestic?  

I’m hoping day ten will yield better results. 

The depression didn’t come on as strong yesterday. 

‘I’m so sorry, please forgive me.’  

‘I forgave you last night.’  

Even Bongo is saying I’m losing weight. 

He weighed in at 72 kilos with his shoes on.  

I notice Bongo’s weight can fluctuate.  

One day he has a pot belly, another, it’s gone.  

Mystifying.  

You could afford to have a day off long walks.  

If you made up for it with weights.  

I’m looking more cut.  

So it seems.  

Don’t be proud of your gut.  

You know how middle-aged men carry their fat gut as a badge of honour? 

Yes, I’m guilty.  

The fifties aren’t your twenties.  

You just can’t get away with it as easy.  

The pills are dwindling. 

The weekends are the best to remain very focused.  

Don’t over-reach in your expectations.  

You’ll only set yourself up to fail.  

You weigh in at 112. 

Stick to one weight machine.  

You were 110 on the chemist’s scale.  

You were 111 on the doctor’s scale. 

And 112 on the cheap nine-dollar scale. 

Don’t lose faith.  

You feel slimmer.  

So you have lost two kilos since taking those damn pills. 

Better than nothing, right?  

The scales don’t match up to what I’m seeing.  

Maybe I’m putting on muscle mass.  

Tooth is flaring up.  

Hold out on taking antibiotics.  

Maybe two kilos in ten days is fantastic. 

Maybe the cheap weight machine is wrong.  

Does it really matter? 

No, it doesn’t.  

Listening to Wolf Mask.  

He’s consistently out there. 

 

Time to have a good sweat-out.  

Just keep on working-out.  

I’ll use the chemist’s scale. 

Better that way.  

I’m not craving food during the night. 

That’s a blessing. 

Reached 20 000 words.  

At least I have a book.  

Wolf Mask says to knuckle down and write the book.  

I’m not sleeping during the day.  

Another bad habit kicked.  

I’m losing working-out more.  

Eating better.  

Give it time.  

Don’t despair.  

The long walks have value.  

Taking me places I’ve never been before.  

I crept behind a guy testing out his drone.  

He didn’t expect to see me. 

I asked a few questions.  

He has four of those drones, each having twenty minutes flying time, and he can fly them high as 100 meters, within the law.  

He makes videos in high definition for his family to view. 

‘You can even fly the drone over waves.’  

He’s one committed drone-freak.  

Migrating out to the kitchen was the best thing I’ve done for a long time.  

Bongo is always playing his shit. 

He has a large speaker.  

You can’t compete with the bass.  

Wearing my jacket now.  

I felt cold.  

It’s 11 degrees. 

No, it's 13.2. 

Regarding my weight, and the scales.  

Does it really matter?  

You were expecting miracles.  

And all you got was two kilograms. 

Are you disappointed? 

Kind of. 

Having to deal with speed in my system. 

Having to handle noise pollution. 

Being ready to snap at any moment. 

I can’t say it’s been worth it. 

It’s made me vulnerable. 

I don’t like that. 

I need to be in control of my emotions.  

It’s hard to keep a strong wank.  

The glory days of day one is long over.  

It’s business as usual.  

Put the ear plugs in.  

He’s slamming the door.  

It’s not worth getting in a fight about it with the king.  

He’ll never learn.  

I’ve survived the day so far. 

Mach Minh says I’ve lost weight in the face. 

Did a video call with him today and I had to agree?  

Didn’t realize.  

That double chin might leave me too.  

Fat creeps up everywhere.  

Wolf Mask is in love with Faith.  

 

Not seen much of his Majesty. 

I’m at a disadvantage, left in the hinterlands of the kitchen.  

There are worse places to be. 

His Majesty can choke on the disgusting smell that comes out of his room.  

I’ll migrate to the room that Amrit lived in.  

The door shuts. 

It doesn't have a gap in the door like my current room, so it acts as a better noise blocker.  

I’ve migrated away from my bed. 

It’s a luxury I can’t afford.  

I’m doing better than yesterday. 

When the Africans are cooking, hide in your room.  

I must manage my psychosis. 

If I’m to continue taking Duromine.  

I got off lightly the other night.  

I don’t want to blame the Duromine.  

It’s an ongoing issue with His Majesty slamming the door.  

He used to close it quietly. 

I remember.  

Now he’s just doing what he wants.  

That’s what kings do, right? 

He won’t be told.  

My quality of life here is fucked.  

You don’t negotiate with Africans.  

Better stop now.  

I can’t afford to enter that territory.  

Be grateful you have the kitchen to use.  

I will move rooms.  

Didn’t realize how much I was at their mercy. 

Even my keyboards aren’t working well.  

Since I dropped the laptop. 

I need to tell Trang.  

She should be ok about it. 

I’ve hidden in my room. 

I just heard His Majesty open up his door. 

He’s a cunt.  

Glad I’m in this room. 

But I need Trang’s blessing. 

Think she’ll agree. 

I’m feeling very tired today. 

If I can avoid the Africans and lock myself away from them, I’ll be fine. 

I had a bowl of sultana bran with a banana. 

It was a healthy late lunch. 

I had a good work-out. 

Didn’t push too hard but didn’t take it too easy. 

I feel stronger.  

I feel muscles are coming back. 

Wolf Mask says my weights are fine.  

‘You don’t need any more than what you have.’ 

That’s reassuring. 

I’m tired. 

I’m tired of walking. 

It really had become an obsession. 

Had this young freak, a teenager, chasing me yesterday and catcalling.  

Was he off his head on meth? 

I just out paced him.  

It’s all becoming hard work. 

Maybe if I relax a bit, Duromine might carry some of the load. 

No visits from the black dogs today. 

Happy about that. 

 

Day eleven.  

Got ear plugs in.  

Had a pep talk from Wolf Mask.  

Twenty kilometres just do it.  

I’m hearing you.  

All I heard was His Majesty. 

For a small guy he makes lots of noise.  

I heard banging.  

I heard it all.  

All I can do is go for a walk and embrace losing weight.  

Trang let me move rooms.  

I’m feeling better about life.  

It’s very doable now.  

I’ll win this race.  

Don’t think about him.  

Think about what you are doing.  

You have written books and now you’ll lose weight.  

Wolf Mask says weigh yourself on the scale at the chemist.  

You’ll be wearing your ear plugs more.  

Deal with it.  

It’s the price you pay for sanity.  

Day eleven has arrived.  

Slept like a baby last night.  

Still in lah-lah land. 

Down half a kilo.  

110.5 

That was with liquid in my stomach.  

Walked from 10 till 6 covering 42 kilometres. 

‘Do twenty today, not sixteen.’ 

Wolf Mask ’s motivational speech got me going. 

Even bought a pair of trekking shoes. 

Not that comfortable actually.  

The sales lady with Botox lips.  

A ring in her nose.  

It was love at first sight.  

And heavy, firm tits. 

She reminded me of the girls at the peep show on Fillmore St.  

‘If they have Botox lips, they’ll want to use them.  

I was thinking of deep throating.  

And of course teasing with her lips that looped like two plump oblong tits.  

You just wanted to run your cock over her lips and tell her to moan.  

I could save her from a tiring job, pouting her lips at passers-by.  

I informed Max about her.  

‘She’s hired,’ he said and wired me loads of cash to clinch the deal.  

Weight is fluctuating. 

Drank two litres of water. 

Pissed one litre.  

So still one kilo over.  

The shit wasn’t that big.  

I felt the chilies.  

But I’m hopeful.  

Burning is going on underneath.  

You just won’t see it just yet.  

I feel ok, considering I walked a marathon.  

I’m bouncing back. 

Day twelve.  

Stick to the scales at the chemist.  

Don’t give up the faith.  

You need to do more work.  

The weight will drop.  

If you are lucky.  

Controlling my emotions.  

That’s all I can do. 

Just don’t despair.  

Let the Duromine work its magic.  

Today I saw the dentist.  

We’ll find out a few things.  

My Medibank card arrived in the mail yesterday.  

Just in the nick of time.  

Weight will come and go.  

Maybe it’s best to stop weighing yourself.  

It will only lead to disappointment.  

Looks like compensation may happen. 

Medicare has caught wind of it.  

That was a nice surprise.  

Hopefully when she starts singing, I’ll be out of here.  

What is it about people singing?  

I just find it noise pollution like an angle grinder.  

Annoying.  

People seem to think they have the right to disturb the peace.  

She has no idea what a fool she is.  

Her faith has blinded her to her idiocy.  

Early mornings are the quietest.  

His Majesty isn’t banging the door.  

Her Majesty hasn’t started praising the Lord, a full-time job for her.  

It’s nice not to have the ear plugs in.  

I feel free.  

Day twelve.  

Not really sure if the pills are working.  

Changed my diet.  

Reduced my calorie intake.  

Maybe two weeks isn’t long enough to see results.  

Need to buy coffee and pay rent.  

Don’t forget 

Do some wash too.  

This dieting has hijacked your life.  

That’s commitment. 

Woke up at 6 today. 

Felt I could sleep another five hours but would miss my dentist appointment.  

‘Don’t let them pull your tooth out.’  

That’s the plan.  

14 kilometres.  

Not bad. 

Things are slowly working out.  

The wheels are turning.  

Now time for a nap.  

Feeling a bit unsteady. Is it fatigue, coming from the painful neck? Ask the doc about that.  

Day 13.  

Nearly two weeks.  

Take the pill at 6 am.  

Better.  

Trying to control my food portions.  

That’s the trick. 

Try and think that the stomach has shrunk.  

You will feel full faster. 

Caught up with Rosa.  

She seemed to have missed my swearing and cursing.  

We ate fruit by her gate.  

Oranges and bananas.  

She was attentive and listened to my rantings.  

Wearing ear plugs has saved my life. 

I slept two hours during the day.  

I was tired. 

I walked 24 kilometres yesterday. 

And I walked a marathon the day before that. 

Eased up on weights over the last few days.  

Still finding my way in the Duromine maze. 

Still weighing in at 110 on the cheap scales.  

I feel my love handles are going down.  

That’s a good thing.  

On to second coffee. 

Waking up early is a good thing.  

Before Duromine, I didn’t care.  

Now I do.  

Tripped on a rise in pavement. It really knocked my knee up.  

Twisted knee hit me with sudden sharp pain.  

Some jerk should pay for this. But …. 

There is hope in the air.  

Thanks Constable Beck.  

I knew you’d come through.  

He totally underestimated you.  

I never did.  

I respected you from the first point of contact.  

You are a star, Beck.  

I need hope.  

And you were good as your word.  

She isn’t clapping now.  

One small blessing.  

Clapping and singing gospel music was just too much. 

Her singing is bad enough.  

Nothing, a pair of ear plugs, and loud music can’t filter out. 

I’ve knocked on the King’s wall.  

He just knocks back.  

He hasn’t attacked me with a knife yet. 

I’d say it got pretty close.  

I want Duromine to work for me.  

We are learning to get on.  

‘He’s nothing but a black cunt,’ I told Rosa.  

Took a shit and didn’t bother cleaning the bowl. 

Bits of my shit have stuck to the bowl.  

His Highness can adore it when he takes his crap today.  

There are more subtle ways of revenge.  

‘It wasn’t me,’ I’ll say.  

If I can avoid seeing him, I’ll be happy.  

I need to lose weight.  

That’s my focus.  

‘Stick to the scales that show the least weight,’ said Wolf Mask.  

I might have to check the chemist’s scale.  

But even with my clothes on I weigh in at 110. 

These are strange days.  

Dentist today.  

It’s better to know the damage.  

And see what can be done.  

Playing catch-up on damage from my lifestyle. 

It was five days and twenty dental crowns  

I was off my head.  

And the pain!  

Duromine is a holiday in comparison. 

Remember that.  

It’s really not that bad.  

No snacks at 2 am. 

I feel I’m managing better on Duromine.  

Maybe it’s a two-week thing.  

Eating fruit in daytime.  

And one meal in the evening.  

I was famished about 8 pm last night.  

I only ate half my meal.  

That’s what I need to do. 

Teach myself these life skills.  

You don’t need to eat so much. 

Let your stomach shrink. 

It’s the best feeling.  

Don’t let it expand with food.  

You’ll only want to eat more. 

I’m talking from the perspective of someone who has nearly starved to death.  

Literally. 

Wasting away.  

So use this inside knowledge. 

Ever read Knut Hamsun’s Hunger? 

It’s the best book on feeling hungry.  

Not pleasant at all.  

I’ve been through a few of Knut Hamsun’s Hunger Pains.  

I’ve felt better for it. 

It wasn’t a personal choice.  

I just didn’t have money to buy food. 

Use this advantage in the Weight Loss Odyssey. 

It will serve you very well. 

Poverty has been a loyal friend.  

Day 13 popped the pill at 6 am then went back to sleep.  

Woke up at 8.30. 

A lot has happened, and little has happened.  

Neck really playing up after work-out.  

Knee really playing up during the walk.  

Still, did ten kilometres.  

Saw the podiatrists and had a bit of skin pulled off. That cost me eight bucks, reimbursed 40 from Medibank. 

She pulled a bit of skin, five minutes later, she was done.  

She was very good.  

Found out that criminal compensation hasn’t been filed yet.  

I’m on it.  Concentrate. 

Must be WA WorkSafe.  

Slowly working through all the confusion.  

Weighed in at 110.5 yesterday. 

Week three starts tomorrow.  

I need to rest the knee. 

The gym work-out aggravated it.  

Duromine has been interesting.  

Fuck it, I had a slice of cake. 

Fuck it, I had two cheese sandwiches.  

Fuck it, getting tooth fixed up.  

Fucking it, getting physio. 

And fuck it, I’m going to fuck you over too, Mr. asshole fucking former employer.  

Need to stimulate the body. 

The cake really put me in a better frame of mind.  

Walking, I’m getting bored with it.  

Duromine, not sure how my life will be without you.  

You have brightened up my perspective.  

So, still on track.  

Stopped weighing myself. 

Fuck it.  

Rest and stretch. 

Don’t forget to eat.  

Drink milk.  

Wolf Mask has been so supportive. 

I don’t know myself sometimes.  

Once I start talking, I just won’t stop. 

Gosh I’m entertaining though.  

Doing stretches and cleaning up.  

No walk this evening.  

Had a two-hour sleep.  

Don’t feel so much doom and gloom.  

The world was weighing down on me.  

There’s that word again.  

So there are no Criminal Compensation proceedings.  

There will be soon.  

That’s my next mission.  

There’s no stopping now.  

Walked to the Vietnamese supermarket with my ear plugs in.  

‘Can you see my earplugs?’ I asked the cute cashier. 

‘Didn’t even see them,’ she said.  

I said I wear them, so I don’t have to hear my African roommates doing the Congo Bongo dance.  

‘Do you join in?’ she asked.  

She’s better than I thought.  

She had this beaming smile.  

Maybe she thinks I’m funny.  

Hay, she surprised me.  

These cashiers really have a wonderful sense of humour.  

Congo Bongo is still slamming the door.  

This is his domain.  

I keep quiet with my earplugs in.  

Don’t fuck with an African, they’ll put a voodoo curse on you.  

Doing something about my teeth.  

Sick of the flare-ups.  

I was going to say sick of playing the victim. 

But now is the time to get it sorted out. I think the dentist from Borneo just didn’t finish the root canal. 

I’m hoping it's not blocked.  

There’s a good chance thing will go fine.  

I’m in a nice nasty mood.  

‘Fucking dog.’  

Congo Bongo has his door opened. 

He’s got his slut cooking for him.  

Meanwhile, his ageing parents are struggling in the Congo. 

Congo Bongo would prefer to take care of this slut than to help his family.  

Shame on the cunt.  

I had a big meal of noodles and rice.  

I needed it. 

It tasted good. 

I need sustenance.  

It just felt right.  

I can’t forget to eat.  

You can’t cheat that way.  

You still need to pump nutrients into your system while losing weight.  

If the body thinks it’s been starved of food, it will keep the fat and make up for the calories elsewhere.  

Or so I’ve been told.  

If I can avoid Congo Bongo, I’ll be happy. 

Glad to be away from his smelly room.  

And the noise.  

And his snoring.  

Congo Bongo can fuck off.  

And I’m being polite.  

The bitch is always cooking late. 

I’m glad I got in before she started.  

I’d never have access to the stove. 

Let a black slut off the street into your home, before you know it, you’ll feel like a stranger. 

She is a nasty slut. 

Her silent treatment has been epic. 

Where the fuck do they get them? 

Seriously? 

Congo Bongo is dumb and lazy and cunning enough, then this other primitive shows up.  

They have taken over Mirrabooka.  

Balga. 

Now Girrawheen. 

How the fuck did so many primitives ever make into Australia? 

I thought the slave ships were outlawed a century ago.  

Two weeks have rolled on.  

Getting my teeth attended to.  

It’s time.  

I’m confident the outcome will be good. 

I know things the dentist doesn’t.  

He’s grateful I have a history on my teeth.  

Let's hope the root canal isn’t blocked.  

I just didn’t get the root canal finished.  

That’s hope.  

I believe in your skills, Dr. Mike.  

I don’t feel like weighing myself.  

I should hold out for another week. 

The chocolate cake was a real morale booster.  

Big day at the dentist.  

Remember you have taken antibiotics for over a year and a half.  

Time to get that sorted out.  

I look skinnier.  

I feel it.  

Good shit today. 

Hurts a little bit around the pie hole.  

But not as bad as yesterday.  

I’m hoping my knee holds out today. 

Yesterday there were hints of collapse.  

I still walked 10 kilometres.  

Rehabilitation.  

Stick with it.  

The pack of Duromine is empty. 

Fifteen tablets later.  

I popped the pill at 5.30 am. 

Woke up at 8 am. 

The pill is kicking in from ten onwards.  

The coffee is surely accelerating it.  

Call this Dutch courage for my dental visit.  

I’m no stranger to needles.  

I’ll cop it sweet, knowing I’m giving this tooth a fighting chance.  

I believe you Dr. Mike that you are very good at root canals.  

I have faith in you. 

‘Any way of rigging it so that you can treat me under general on my health insurance?’  

‘I’d prefer to give you a discount than to do that.’  

I’m getting a discount price anyway. 

We really need to talk about aesthetics.  

He says my top teeth should be longer. 

‘They are too short.’  

And he can’t see my lower teeth. 

‘They need to be higher.’ 

Not sure if the stump can accommodate that, I said.  

He’s sure it can.  

Dentistry is fascinating.  

‘I got my teeth capped to preserve them.’  

I had already told him how my bottom teeth were being ground down by the four capped front teeth. 

He knows I’m clued -in and he appreciates that.  

In the dental chair, I asked both Mike and Sandra, the assistant, who I think is his wife,  

if I knew more about dentistry than most customers.  

‘Yes, you do.’  

I clapped my hands and pumped my fists. 

God knows what they think of me.  

God knows. 

I hope it’s not bad.  

And if it is, who cares.  

I just don’t want my teeth pulled out.  

I’m just not buying much food. 

Though I feel a bit guilty eating that cake and having a big evening meal, I’m eating less. 

Ronnie died of a heart attack.  

When he lost weight, people complained he was too skinny.  

When he gained weight, people complained he was too fat.  

In the end, it killed him.  

His weight was up and down.  

At 68, such extremities most likely killed him.  

I’m missing you Ronnie.  

You reached out and changed lives.  

Root canal pulp scooped out.  

Successful.  

Apparently the canal in right canine is only half done.  

I just didn’t have a clue about that. 

Back to the dentist in a few weeks’ time.  

It feels great. 

Mike and Sandra are a great team. 

They even bring in a music playlist their daughter downloaded on Spotify.  

‘I knew you could do it,’ I said to Mike.  

He shook my hand.  

I feel he really wants to help me.  

It took nearly two hours. 

He gives the time.  

I appreciate it. 

He drilled up to the apex. It hurt like fuck.  

‘I want to make sure I’m getting any infection that might be there.’  

He needs to see if the canal curves around any further.  

If not, then stage three. 

He’ll need to open up the canal.  

He has put antibiotics inside.  

And says to take a combo of the antibiotics I’ve got if it swells up.  

I think he’s happy that I trusted him to do the root canal.  

I’m a bit tired.  

And my ass hole is burning.  

Duromine what are you doing to me.  

‘This was far more exciting than physio,’ I told Mike.  

He’s used to crazy Yugoslavians. 

I’ve missed being on the dentist chair.  

Things are very high-tech in Australia. 

You pay the money. 

But you also get a warranty. 

‘You don’t get this kind of treatment in third world shit holes,’ I said to him, 

 while he was doing the root canal.  

Feel like I’ve been hit by a steam train.  

Something good must be happening. 

Not sure if a filling has come out. 

I really can’t be sure. 

I don’t know how he got in the tooth and up the canal. 

It is even curved. 

He’s a magician. 

I feel good things are happening. 

The bad has been taken out. 

The tooth stank. 

I could even taste the rancid puss. 

He’s cleaned it all out. 

Now that can’t be a bad thing. 

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said. 

It really wasn’t. 

And Dr Mike is here to fix it up.  

I told him I was sorry to try and fudge the system. 

‘I’ve been in Asia too long.’  

And thanked him for the discount.  

He didn’t charge me for the x-rays. 

I paid 350 dollars. 

Neck feeling unsteady. 

But I’ve come to grips with it. 

No depression or anger today. 

Just addressing other health issues. 

Popped into the physio place. 

Mandy didn’t seem happy to see me. 

She’ll have my report emailed to me. 

Jordan is up north visiting his 90-year-old grandmother. 

I hope he’s having a wonderful time. 

Mandy did speak to him about me feeling bad about suggesting what to write in his report.  

Keep it to whiplash, I said. 

She had spoken to him. 

Maybe I broke the cardinal rule.  

Well I may not even need the report. 

It had to be the Duromine speaking.  

You get jerks and I’m one of them! 

Ate noodles for lunch. 

Lots of veggies. 

Had a bit of cake. 

I deserve some calories. 

I’ve not weighed myself today. 

Two weeks under my belt.  

And I’ve become indifferent.  

Toe feels better after the podiatrist trimmed some skin around where the corn used to be.  

If I can get teeth fixed up, one less thing to worry about. 

For a year and half I’ve taken antibiotics. 

Not good at all.  

Walked 13 kilometres today. 

Not shabby. 

It was a hard walk. 

Duromine had abandoned me. 

I’m making up for the cake and the greasy noodles. 

Might have to start Operation Diarrhea tomorrow. 

I’ll buy some laxatives and really get this show going.  

Knee wasn’t playing up. 

Toe felt better.  

Things are happening. 

If you can lose 15 kilos in two months, it is more acceptable.  

Think about it, getting under 100 kgs would be fantastic.  

It’s realistic.  

Ten more kilos to go.  

I know the task seems daunting.  

But you are two weeks into it.  

It takes time and dedication.  

Started week three of Duromine by popping a pill at 4.30 am. 

Then I slept for another three hours. 

Now taking my first coffee. 

Four hours later and still no visitation.  

What an amazing drug. 

It hibernates when you don’t need it. 

Need to buy laxatives today.  

Sinus feels great.  

It doesn’t have that sore feeling. 

Dr. Mike cleaned it up big time. 

I could smell the infection as he opened up the tooth. 

It really stank. 

‘It tastes acidic.’  

‘That would be the puss,’ said Mike. 

As it is now, any infection can drain out, he said.  

At first, he recommended I see a root canal specialist. 

He didn’t want to find that the canal was blocked and then have to refer me to a specialist. 

I said that it shouldn’t be blocked. 

I had a visa run to do. 

So I had to abandon the treatment.  

It’s all coming back to me. 

Mike didn’t say anything about decay in the tooth.  

I thought there might be lots of decay.  

He managed to pull out the gunk that sealed the canal.  

Then he went for the canal. 

He went up a few millimetres, to the apex, to scoop out any infections.  

He was thorough. 

It hurt like fuck when scooped out above the canal. 

When he put pins in, leakage from the apex wet the canal. 

He kept me updated on everything. 

‘Make sure we put on the music mix,’ he said, before he entered the operation room.  

Music is a big part of his treatment. 

Keeps him happy. 

And keeps the patient happy. 

It certainly distracted you from the sound of the drill. 

Had a shit.  

Feels a bit tight coming out the exit hole. 

Not bad, considering it’s been two weeks on Duromine.  

I’m positive that it’s working.  

There are ups and downs. 

I’ve stopped eating sandwiches. 

I might do a big buy up of healthy food today. 

Get the roughage levels up. 

Two glorious weeks.  

Broken many personal bests.  

I've done things I’d held off and ruined my reputation as a tight wad. 

It used to be procrastination.  

Now it’s time to get things done.  

108 on the chemist’s scale. 

Weighed myself twice.  

Not lying. 

111 on my cheap scales. 

I’ll go with whatever says the lightest.  

The nine-dollar Kmart scale still says 112. 

Well fuck that.  

‘It’s mid-range,’ said Sheldon, the chemist, of their scales.  

And I believe it.  

It even feels like a 35-dollar scale.  

Today I’m at 108 kilograms on the chemist's scale. 

I was 110 after the first week on Duromine.  

I’ve lost two kilos in the last week.  

I’ve lost six, in the past two weeks.  

Stick with one scale, said Andy, the chemist.  

I will.  

Visited Rosa.  

We spoke about the Africans.  

She’s not a big fan of them.  

I told her I’ve stopped cleaning up after them.  

She’s happy I’ve lost weight.  

‘But don’t lose too much,’ she says.  

Another eight wouldn’t hurt, I said.  

I’m down to 108 on the chemist scale.  

Sure I’ve said it before.  

But I’m happy to see the results.  

Sheldon says Duromine is great for weight loss. 

Rosa gave me a banana.  

We chatted a little.  

I didn’t linger.  

She had trouble finding the key to lock her gate.  

She’ll get there.  

I’m 108. 

This is this week.  

It’s 108.  

Slept some. 

I was tired. 

I’m hiding in my room. 

I enjoy my own company. 

Have I really reached 108? 

Looks like it.  

The scale doesn’t lie.  

All that walking has helped.  

You have lost six kilograms. 

That’s quite amazing. 

In two weeks. 

You raced today at the chemist. 

Andy takes everything in his stride. 

He signed my I.D for free the other day. 

I did offer.  

He’s a cool cucumber.  

Sheldon is a really nice guy. 

He helped me with my shop.  

I really want to support my local chemist. 

He’s studying pharmacy. 

I ask the boys about Duromine. 

They sell it.  

They don’t look down on us using it.  

They treat us like normal people.  

It’s all you can ask. 

The last kilos just dropped off in the last few days.  

I didn’t see or expect it to come.  

All I can say is I’m grateful.  

‘Where’s my wallet, where’s my wallet.’  

I panicked.  

Mike and his wife looked around for it.  

It was under the dental chair.  

Now I could pay the bill.  

They were really good about it.  

It came across more as an accusation.  

It was a heavy two hours under the chair. 

I really could hardly feel the pain.  

The shot in the mouth worked like a charm.  

It was almost painless. 

I’m glad he only made a few twists at the apex. 

Any more screws would have killed me without another shot.  

Sixteen kilometres tonight.  

I’m not writing about them. 

I have better things to write about. 

Getting hungrier. 

Eating more.  

Bought some fruit.  

The walk went well.  

Walking 16 kilometres isn’t an easy hike. 

It takes commitment.  

It’s time consuming and labour intensive.  

It’s helping me. 

I’m 108, right? 

That’s what the scale said, three times.  

It’s the same scale that last said 110.5.  

It’s not lying. 

It says I’ve lost 2.5 kgs. 

I’m not disputing it. 

Stick with the same scale.  

It will never lie.  

It’s great not seeing or hearing the dog. 

That’s all I’m going to say. 

I don’t have the time or the inclination to write another 1000 words on them.  

They aren’t worth it.  

Popped the pill at five am. 

Woke up and quickly popped the laxative. 

I am popping pills again.  

Will work on the stomach. 

Some sit ups.  

And some toning exercise. 

The 16 km walk did me the world of good. 

It was 18 degrees last night, long after midnight.  

I was hot.  

It’s mid-winter and we are getting these mild kinds of temperatures. 

I’m monitoring the weather.  

I’m monitoring my own weather. 

Need to get back to The Memory Room. 

Watching porn, mostly titty fucking movies.  

It’s a stress reliever.  

Can I lose another two kilograms this week? 

It’s a big ask. 

I’ve asked for the impossible and it happened. 

I had no idea I would have been two kilos lighter.  

But I was.  

It has to be the combination of walking and watching my food portions.  

More fruit helps. 

Less noodles.  

It’s just common sense. 

‘Don’t get too skinny,’ said Rosa. 

I can afford to lose a few extra pounds I told her. 

She invited me into her house. 

She gave me a banana. 

It was really nice seeing her. 

On Duromine, I feel I’m appreciating her more.  

She’ll love me if I’m 15 kilos lighter. 

Waiting for the laxative to kick in. 

This is cheating.  

I know.  

But diarrhea was the best weight loss pill I’ve ever had.  

Even told the chemist that.  

No swelling of the sinus.  

No tender feelings.  

It’s clearing up.  

I haven't got infected.  

‘I’ve cleaned out the infection.’  

Dr. Mike scraped it out.  

‘It will drain out, if any infection comes.’  

He says we’ll know what the cause of the sinus inflammation is.  

I suspect he already knows. 

It just stuck when he was opening up the tooth. 

I haven’t got that acidic taste anymore.  

It feels clean.  

A two-hour cleaning up of the root canal has done wonders. 

The body is responding well.  

He went right up, just below the sinus.  

Something floating around caused the infection.  

He’s cleaned it all out. He also injected antibiotics. 

It’s called attacking the infection at the source. 

What more can I ask? 

Only dentists have the patience to do something like that.  

Mike uses a magnifying glass. 

It’s like a microscope with a light. 

He can see everything.  

It’s really reassuring.  

I had no idea you could drill a hole in the crown and get to the root canal that way.  

It shows you how little I really know.  

Door slamming tolerable.  

Faith lecturing me. 

As if I give a fuck.  

Congo Bongo is hungry. 

Maybe he’s not a bad guy after all.  

I’m exercising now.  

Taking it easy.  

Waiting for the thunder in my bowels.  

The more weight I lose, the less angry I become. 

They can do what the fuck they want. 

So long as I’m losing weight, I don’t give a fuck about them. 

Losing weight is a selfish preoccupation.  

It’s not for wimps.  

Wimps stay fat. 

I know, I used to be one.  

Once I get down to 106, then I know I’m really losing weight.  

I’m still covering old territory.  

I’m two kilograms closer to reaching my best.  

Be vigilant.  

Be strong.  

Be a Spartan. 

Rewards only come if you put in the hard work.  

Right? 

Doing washing.  

Trying to keep up with that.  

Seeing professionals, I’m all of a sudden self-conscious of how I look and smell.  

Isn’t that fucked?? 

The physiotherapist had better commence his magic. 

Not seeing anything substantial in terms of improved well-being.  

But with the dentist.  

Call it instant gratification.  

Call it what you like.  

The gunk he scraped out is starving the infection of fuel.  

I like that.  

My sense of well-being has just gone through the roof. 

I felt so bad when my face swelled up.  

After eighteen inconclusive months of treating it with antibiotics, it was getting beyond a joke.  

Money can get things done.  

That’s what I love about money.  

Don’t deny yourself treatment.  

It might just save your life. 

And to the heart palpitations from poisoned blood. 

At times I thought I was dying from a heart attack. 

See how close this sinus infection was to killing you?? 

My friend the poet told me many times to sort it out. 

At last I listened.  

With a prod from Duromine, of course.  

Can’t feel the shit coming on yet.  

I’ve deliberately held back.  

I want it to flow.  

Uninhibited.  

It’s the enema my intestines have needed.  

I want to flush them out.  

Clear the pipes.  

That’s the plan. 

It’s called cheating.  

But diarrhea has worked wonders.  

Why shouldn’t laxatives? 

It’s not like I’m not blocked up.  

It hurts taking a shit.  

I haven’t been drinking enough water.  

Aiming for four litres today.  

Six would be better.  

More water, more flushing.  

Faith is talking about how I disrespect her.  

She’s praising her lord.  

I can hear it from my room.  

I’m playing porn.  

It’s the least I can do.  

She is worthy of that kind of respect.  

Their rubbish area is messy.  

They must think the tile floors are some kind of mud carpet they are used to living on in Africa.  

I refuse to clean up their shit.  

I wouldn’t want to break their illusion.  

Out of Africa, In Africa, they are always the same, fucking dirty.  

Now is this the disrespect you are talking about Faith. 

If only you ever knew that I was writing a Billy Kwan dossier on you and King Congo Bongo.  

But I’m softening to him today.  

We have a history.  

And a lot of it has been good.  

I cleaned up their shit in the kitchen. 

Is that disrespect, bitch? 

Also did my washing and hung it up. 

Caught up with the oldest child of Trang. 

Said hello and no reply.  

They don’t like me. 

It’s time to lose weight and get out of Dodge. 

Trang likes me.  

I’m aiming to lose 20 kilos. 

It will get me back to Gang Dolly weight.  

Yes, you have that video you posted on YouTube to compare.  

I didn’t mind doing the cleaning.  

You can’t expect much from the Africans.  

They have some praying to do.  

Who knows, maybe God will answer their prayer one day.  

Keep it humorous.  

Had a great shit.  

Thick and almost golden brown.  

Hurt a little bit.  

The constipation tablets haven’t kicked in.  

But I think I shitted out half a kilo.  

More fruit. 

More water.  

Take care of the diet thing too.  

It’s a holistic approach.  

This is your school of second chance. 

Whatever happened to Mark Foster, Jonathan Whitfield and Michael Steward?  

I know what happened to Bongo Champ.  

The nineties have long passed us.  

I’ve done my bit.  

I’ve travelled the world and written some stories.  

At personal risk.  

I didn’t sit at home watching T.V. 

I went out there and explored and wrote about it.  

I had seen killings, bombs, death by drugs.  

I had seen it all.  

And I wasn’t even a foreign correspondent, most of the time.  

Time to trim hair.  

Shave.  

Keep up appearances. 

Fool them all.  

This is the makeover you needed and now is the perfect time for it.  

As Scotty the poet would say, another remnant of the 90s, ‘because yours is the only move.’  

I’ve cut my hair.  

The Africans didn’t ask me to throw out the rubbish.  

They willed it with the voodoo Christianity crap.  

I had no choice.  

I was under their dirty spell.  

Time and time again, the two of them do it.  

They’ll eat.  

It’s their top priority.  

But they won’t clean.  

The rubbish bin had festering liquid inside it.  

In a thousand years they’ll never think about cleaning it.  

I’m running low on bleach.  

Get your teeth fixed.  

Think what to do next. 

Dr. Mike knows it’s a big outlay.  

I had no idea the right canine was only a half a root canal. 

I can’t even remember getting it.  

It will explain the swelling around the gum in the canine region.  

Cut my hair, left some length. 

Hair cream can work its magic.  

Need to drink another two litres of water.  

Slipped on the floor.  

The fuckers.  

My left knee felt it.  

Double fuckers.  

And you know who I’m talking about.  

Aren’t women supposed to be tidy? 

Faith prides herself on being lazy. 

Congo Bongo is a lost cause.  

He’s royalty after all.  

More liquid, more pissing.  

Faith can clean up the hair in the bathroom sink.  

The toilet floor was looking grubby.  

Once I realized, I’d be carrying those germs into my room, I mopped it.  

Can’t be too cautious.  

Congo Bongo is slamming his door. 

I’ve since realized it’s his divine right.  

I’ll never be considered in the equation.  

How the fuck did Faith get over here to study an MBA at Edith Cowan University? 

She’s really running Congo Bongo into the ground.  

It seems to be her divine right too.  

For over a year he has been paying her rent and feeding her.  

While she goes out during the day to fraternize with male Africans. 

Even I can smell a suspicious turd.  

Congo Bongo is totally oblivious. 

Right, God sees everything and will reserve him a VIP space in heaven. 

‘She said she will pay me.’  

What she says and what she does are two different things.  

I have a sneaky suspicion she has no intention of paying you back.  

Not even with a blow job.  

Bad deal is all I can say. 

Don’t pick up strays from the street.  

Advice to self.  

Congo Bongo is beyond advice.  

Being divinity, he doesn’t need it.  

No one likes having weird tenants around. 

I get it.  

James is growing up.  

But Jason is still cool with me.  

He’s a gentleman and really helpful.  

He understands me.  

Trang does too.  

I pay my rent and I’m welcome.  

It’s been a money tree staying here.  

Just need to stay positive.  

And get things done.  

Keep fit.  

Keep clean.  

And prove the world wrong.  

I’m not a spent force yet.  

Are we Faithful?  

I’m kind of glad she is fucking over Congo Bongo. 

She’s played it well. 

Being a real lady certainly helps and being pious,  

an added bonus with these religious freaks.  

Congo Bongo thinks he’s contributing to the good lord’s work. 

He must believe in her.  

I’ve stopped talking about her to him.  

It goes in one ear and out the other.  

He’s buying her company.  

He’s got someone to speak Swahili with.  

But Faith prefers English.  

She’s on another level to the uneducated Congo Bongo.  

And I think that’s what he admires about her.  

A simple farmer boy who paid someone to fudge his documents  

to get him over to the promised land.  

But his money is god in Faith’s eyes.  

That’s why she pretends to be interested in him. 

Fascinating dynamics going on here.  

I have a ring-side seat.  

The problem is, when you have people who think they are Kings and Queens,  

nothing gets done.  

That’s why she pretends to be interested in him. 

Fascinating dynamics going on here.  

I have a ring-side seat. But they know well that the worker bee will do the work for them.  

They are cunning.  

They have come from Africa so that the white man can serve them.  

No wonder the white South Africans left. 

And the really funny thing is, the blacks followed on the refugee ticket.  

Now I know what Europe is experiencing.  

With only the Mediterranean between them and Africa, Europe is being flooded with blacks wanting a better life. 

Something has to give.  

Could the system eventually break down? 

With only the Mediterranean between them and Africa, Europe is being flooded with blacks wanting a better life. 

Something has to give.  

Could the system eventually break down? 

And anarchy reigns supreme because most Africans think they deserve a better life at the expense of the host countries that must host them.  

I think so. 

UNHCR and the UN, I see your play.  

It’s devastating string-pulling.  

And what a high price we must pay to keep inefficient organizations like you in business.  

Trump knows this well. He’s a smart guy.  

Big Tanzanian Terry fucked all the white backpackers at the hostel like it was his right. Remember him? 

 Stay focused.  

Two hard weeks behind you.  

Be kind to yourself.  

You are a machine.  

Most would have crumbled. 

Not you. 

Continue on. 

Your aim is under 100. 

Get into two digits.  

Only eight to go. 

You lost six. 

The scale doesn’t lie, right? 

The shit was great.  

It was softened.  

It was a tough sixteen kilometres.  

It was one kilometre at a time. 

Veggies, carrot and fish, for dinner. 

Healthy food.  

Now that’s the spirit.  

Sweated like a pig during the walk. 

I was drenched in sweat.  

I’m not complaining.  

One kilometre at a time, I told myself until I was done.  

It’s a long walk in one go. 

It can’t be any other way if I want to shed those kilos.  

Hope the knee holds out. 

Another Duromine day.  

Took the pill about 7.30. 

Woke up at nine and took a laxative.  

Monday has arrived.  

I’m staring down the barrel of a gun.  

Left foot bruised from long walk.  

I can also feel an ingrown toenail. 

And I’m waiting for a thick and juicy shit.  

Drank more water yesterday than I have over the past week.  

I just forgot to drink lots of water.  

That’s all. 

Nearly 30 thousand words written.  

Even if I wasn’t on this diet, the time would pass.  

Better it passes while I’m on Duromine.  

What have I got to lose? 

What have I got to gain? 

It's a weight I want to lose.  

Drinking more water.  

The shit was clean, a nice colour, light yellow.  

Still hurt coming out.  

Remedy that with more water and fibre.  

It’s all about getting the right balance. 

Mach Minh says stay strong and stop being a wussy.  

‘And you will lose twenty kilograms.’  

I suppose I have another six solid weeks to go before I see the real results.  

Be patient.  

Be vigilant.  

Eat well.  

Don’t be a glutton.  

Respect the pill and it will respect you, said Wolf Mask.  

I will take two laxatives tomorrow. 

It’s time to clean out the intestines.  

Get it all out.  

Back to weights.  

Need the sweat.  

Need to get rid of my tits.  

I can even see the stain lines from where the tits hung on my rib cage. 

It's proof that the weight is lifting up my breasts. 

Maybe someone has been spiking my coffee with estrogen.  

Knee is feeling fantastic. 

Must be the unseasonably warm weather.  

It’s 24 degrees now.  

I’m back to the weights.  

I know I went too hard the first week. 

The second week I’ve eased into it.  

The third week, I’m doing it more regularly. 

Consistency, that’s the secret.  

Do the work and let the rewards eventually come.  

It’s not an instant fix. 

Losing weight, properly, takes time.  

Sarah from Medicare, she said she lost ten kilos on it the first time. 

She said the second time, it didn’t work. 

She is overweight, but told me over twenty-five years, she’s lost twenty-five kilos. 

That’s just brilliant.  

She loved it when I told her I was chatty because I was on Duromine. 

We are legion.  

There are more people on it than will let on. 

I plan to break the stigma of it.  

Those crackheads have ruined its very reputation.  

Like they did with codeine, for which we now need a prescription.  

Or even Codral Flu. 

The crack heads are taking away our basic rights. 

Meth-stained crack heads. 

We not only salute you, but we’ll put you out of your misery, for free.  

Done another load of washing.  

Had two cheese and tomato sandwiches. 

I don’t want to starve myself.  

I stopped at two.  

Normally I’d have four.  

Did some washing.  

Brought in the washing from the line.  

Did my weights. 

Made a few important calls.  

The day is moving along nicely.  

I hope I don’t raid the fridge this evening.  

Got a bruise on my left foot.  

Those Rivers hiking boots are just rubbish. 

Like all the sneakers from Rivers. 

Just crap. 

Don’t buy anymore junk from Rivers. 

Looks great. 

But have bruised my foot.  

Back to wearing my work boots. 

Optimal support. 

Comfortable. 

Walked 15 kilometres yesterday. 

Add another kilometre or two.  

Got a visit from Faith last night.  

She visited twice. 

I hate it when she knocks on my door.  

Really gets me into a funk. 

I could write a thousand words just on this.  

But I won’t.  

If you are going to knock on my door, at least come inside and suck me off.  

They are my last words, for now. 

I just nod my head. 

All the time.  

Back onto the salads. 

Breaking up my diet.  

The walk in the rain was beautiful. 

I love seeing the tiny raindrops cloud up the atmosphere.  

I walked to Wangara and back. 

Where my journey in this part of Perth began. 

It was my tribute to how things can work out if you get on with it. 

I hate being taken advantage of. 

I hate liars too.  

I didn’t get where I am through inaction.  

I may well go into more details about this.  

Congo Bong was slamming doors at midnight last night. 

He had a movie on and was playing it loud. 

Yet only I got a visit from Faith to turn down my volume, twice. 

‘Fuck off,’ I said and slammed the door. 

They are pushing my buttons again.  

Now you know why I wear my ear plugs all the time. 

As I said, not normal. 

Congo Bongo has thrown out his rubbish. 

Meaning he’ll want me to pick it up from the rubbish area in the kitchen and place it in the bin outside.  

They are still working voodoo on me.  

To be black is such a privilege. 

Now it’s time to take a crap.  

I’ve caught Congo Bongo’s laziness. 

And you know what, he doesn’t give a fuck. 

So long as he looks tidy when he goes outside. 

I say the washing machine is contaminated now after he washed the linen 

which he puts on his floor like a mat.  

It just stinks.  

Congo Bongo sweat. 

Food. 

A real potpourri of filth.  

Now that they have poisoned my narrative.  

Sinus doesn’t feel inflamed.  

It’s getting better.  

No swelling.  

Just a slight feel of sensitivity when I massage sinus with my index finger.  

It was worse, much worse, before the root canal. 

The soft infected spot has almost gone.  

The treatment is really working.  

And I made it happen.  

I have to.  

Otherwise one day it might just continue swelling. 

I’ve not had my face swell up much lately.  

But when it does, it’s not a pretty sight.  

Elephant man! 

It’s costing me money. 

But Dr. Mike is sorting it out.  

He’ll enlarge the canals next visit.  

He won’t touch it until about two weeks after the last treatment. 

The swelling in the gum has gone down.  

Swelling of gum above the right canine tooth is still apparent. 

Don’t get your teeth done overseas, if you can help it.  

They’ll only make your teeth worse. 

‘Most dentists wouldn’t touch teeth that have been done overseas.’  

Thanks for taking mine on. 

‘Your pet project,’ I said, when I first entered Dr. Mike’s examination room.  

He loves to leave his blinds open so anyone who is entering the clinic can look in. 

More natural light too.  

I had a crap.  

There’s something jabbing into my anus.  

A little tear from hard shit.  

It’s all out now. 

The laxative is softening things. 

A small blessing. 

Feeling lighter. Do I dare weigh myself on my poxy weight machine? 

 

Yeah, why not.  

How do I feel about Duromine?  

Now that the hype is behind me, I feel I’m settling in. 

The highs aren’t so high, and the lows are non-existent.  

I did throw out Congo Bongo’s bag of rubbish. 

It really stank. 

I had to lift the green bin which was upside down and draining.  

Yesterday his bike fell and blocked the pathway out to the gate.  

A   roofing sheet that was leaning against the wall also blocked my path. 

The dog has his three bikes in the alleyway leading to the gate. 

You have to be careful navigating yourself out to the gate. 

I’m always cleaning up after this dog. 

There’s always something in the way, something smelly. 

And then there’s the noise.  

The slamming of doors.  

Congo Bongo is a real work of art.  

I don’t think he could move anywhere else. 

I bet he got kicked out of his place. 

‘I could feel demons at night-time,’ he said, ‘they were trying to strangle me. 

 Exact quote. 

Never a thank you for cleaning up his mess. 

Maybe he thinks I’m his surrogate mother. 

That’s it. 

I pity his mother back in the Congo.  

And the thanks she gets, Congo Bongo pumps all his savings into Faith, who refuses to say where she is from.  

That’s not right.  

She proclaimed early on that she was from the Congo. 

Odd, hey? 

Odd indeed. 

I really don’t want this book to be about them. 

Looks like the dog left early today.  

Man, he’s a stink bomb.  

But to see him dressed up as a gentleman, 

you’d think my claim that he’s dirty is a figment of my imagination.  

The Nepalese dog was just like Congo Bongo. 

He didn’t like doing housework.  

He liked me doing it.  

‘The toilet stinks,’ he’d say.  

Well go and clean it then. 

He never would. 

He’s an international student. 

I could write a book on these fuck heads. 

But I won’t. 

Not yet. 

I’m getting close to 30 thousand words now. 

I’m feeling peace with myself.  

‘Faith, are you there.’ 

No response. 

I was going to apologize for swearing at her last night.  

I’m always apologizing to the Africans.  

Once Faith apologized. I’ll give that to her. 

But Congo Bongo. 

Forget about it.  

I’m still 113 on the Kmart scales. 

But when I look in the mirror, I can see my tits aren’t sagging. 

They are high, where they should be. 

And I can still see the bra line. 

Yet the scale lies to me. 

But the mirror is being true. 

There lies the contradiction.  

‘Stick with the scale that makes you look lightest,’ said Wolf Mask. 

I’m actually in a really good mood.  

Telling someone to fuck off and slamming the door is invigorating.  

‘Control your temper.’  

I did and I released it too.  

I never thought I’d reach thirty thousand words in just over two weeks.  

Duromine is good on many levels.  

I’m padding this out to reach 30 k words. 

I’m a few words short. 

But soon we’ll cross the line.  

Just did a word count, yep, we are over thirty thousand words.  

The Africans are pushing hard, spearheaded by Faith.  

Bang.  

Remember I moved rooms so I wouldn’t have to put up with the noise coming from Congo Bongo’s room. 

Now I’m getting calls from Faith.  

She’s the gestapo, nearly knocking down my door on the first visit.  

‘Can you turn the volume down.’  

I turned it down to half, and here was Faith, banging on my door. 

‘Can you turn it down more.’  

I slammed my door and yelled out ‘FUCK.’  

I abandoned the movie I was watching.  

And listened to the soundtrack of a movie playing from Congo Bongo’s room. 

Twice today I’ve got angry reliving this.  

It can only lead to my ruin.  

If I let it. 

I need to be super strong at this juncture. 

Otherwise I’ll lose the plot.  

I’ll lose the plot. 

She has no shame.  

Congo Bongo told me she broke her phone.  

Explains why I’m not hearing her praise the Lord. 

God is listening to my prayers.  

I won’t give her the WIFI password when she does get a replacement.  

I’m learning.  

I owe her nothing.  

I’m in survival mode.  

I never really had these issues staying with backpackers. 

Sure I raced out a few times.  

Look what my life has become.  

Thank you, Mandela.  

You empowered the Africans.  

The big dicks are moving, lock up your white daughters.  

‘The problem is the white daughters like black dicks.’  

I’m hearing you.  

For a little girl she makes a lot of noise.  

I saw her ugliness for the first time today. 

She’s an ugly African.  

Congo Bongo when he is speaking is loud. 

They are loud.  

And we must listen to them. 

Threw out his rubbish today, hung out his washing.  

And my reward will be a bang on my door late at night.  

I was in this room before.  

Faith banged too much in the kitchen.  

The noise was too much, so I moved back to my old room. 

Then Congo Bongo’s noise got to me and the door slammed.  

I’m fucked. 

And they know it.  

Ok enough about those ass-wipes.  

Stay strong.  

Had the runs this evening.  

A great shit.  

I am off-loaded.  

At least half a kilogram in shit.  

It’s been storing up in my bowels.  

It’s out now. 

Walked six kms in the evening.  

Now putting ice on the arch of my left foot which feels bruised. 

I will have a hot shower and bleed out the anxiety.  

Physio went very well.  

A few cracks.  

I really feel I’m being cheated. 

But let's be patient.  

Do the exercises he suggests and strengthen muscles.  

I suppose the next two sessions should show a difference.  

I’ve had better massages in Asia.  

Oh well, I’m leaving a paper trail. 

So anything after that is a bonus.  

Might need to take two laxatives tonight.  

Bought some clothes at Kmart. 

And some more juice, coils and an atomizer.  

I don’t want to start smoking again.  

It was a busy day. 

Walked 20 kilometres.  

Walk, watch your food intake, and Duromine might just help me lose those twenty kilos I’m aiming for.  

Oh, and the laxatives.  

They are my secret weapon.  

She is terrorizing me.  

They all have.  

Everyone who has lived here at Trang’s has terrorized me.  

One of them, another fake refugee, wanted to stab me.  

It’s just a base for now.  

Wait, good things are coming your way. 

Work starts on the right canine tooth in two weeks’ time.  

I’ll use the COVID bonus to pay for the first tooth and help pay for half of the second root canal.  

It’s a good time to attend to teeth.  

Two years of moaning haven’t done your teeth any favours.  

Still, that’s the fun, putting things off, right? 

I’m expecting the dog to slam the door.  

I don’t live in hope that he won’t.  

He’s a creature of habit. 

Black shit around the sink, and on the floor. 

It had to be Congo Bongo.  

After I cleaned that up, I mopped around his side of the kitchen and swept up shit around his bin.  

He needs to find a bitch who doesn’t mind keeping things cleaned.  

He’s really been cheated.  

So I’m the one cleaning up after him.  

Africans are smart. 

No wonder the KKK was formed.  

It was the only thing that scared the shit out of them. 

Embolden a black, they’ll take more liberties. 

I’ve seen it first-hand.  

I’ve paid the price over and over.  

And I’ll pay for it again. 

Congo Bong is a dirty fuck.  

He’s getting away with it.  

My table lets me down.  

Draws attention to me.  

They hide their mess.  

They are clean in the eyes of Trang.  

Ate two good meals.  

Real food.  

Keep it up.  

I hate these African cunts.  

I fucking hate them. 

If I could fuck them over, I would.  

I’ve tried. 

Nothing sticks on these Velcro parasites. 

I’m losing track of the Duromine days.  

It’s losing its intensity. 

I need to watch my emotions.  

She could easily bring me down. 

She is the Witch Master, after all.  

I’ve hidden my dustpan. 

The Africans like to dump their trash near their bin. 

No. 

That will not do.  

The last dustpan was broken after I lost the plot cleaning their trash.  

I threw the dustpan on the floor and it broke in half. 

I’ll return the broken one for them to use. 

They only deserve the best. 

The witch didn’t knock on my door last night.  

I kept the volume down.  

I hear music coming from her room.  

She must have fixed her phone.  

‘Don’t be nosey.’  

She said that a fair bit in the early days. 

It was her weapon. 

She knew I never liked to hear that. 

She hasn’t used it for a while. 

I guess because I haven’t been nosey. 

I measured in at 112 on the Kmart scale. 

How can scales be so out? 

I guess I need to find the mean between the three scales. 

I’m down to 107.3. 

Got another Duromine script.  

Doc is happy with the outcome.  

Weighed in on the chemist scale.  

That was 107.5.  

7 kgs in less than three weeks. 

That’s fucking unbelievable.  

Doc says I can walk.  

Doesn’t look swollen. 

I’ll go easy. 

Rosa has lost her keys.  

She can’t get out. 

Can’t help you.  

Spent ten minutes trying all her keys. 

You have two other bunches Rosa, find them.  

She patted my tummy.  

‘You have lost weight.’  

She’s a great coach. 

I’m just trying to find the inner me. 

He’s under the layers of 20 kilograms of fat. 

Thanks Duromine, you have been a lifesaver. 

The Duromine Diaries have been launched. 

Need to cut out the afternoon sleep.  

You are on Duromine for fuck’s sake.  

Let’s get that walk in. 

Get some sun.  

Get inspired.  

That podcast was just damn interesting.  

We work well together.  

Weight loss will never be the same now that we have exposed it. 

Housewives off their heads on pseudoephedrine. 

I’m watching the moody Kenyan. 

She’ll try and fuck up my peace again. 

The knocker.  

The door knocker. 

Go and knock elsewhere, freeloader. 

Show extreme patience. 

While showing extreme prejudice at the same time.  

Walked sixteen kilometres.  

But it was closer to 19 kilometres.  

In one go.  

Negative thoughts entered my mind.  

It was a battle.  

Time to put ice on my left foot. 

It’s working.  

I’m getting the k’s under my belt.  

That’s the only reason why I’ve lost seven kilograms in three weeks.  

Lots and lots of wholesome walking.  

I’m two kilograms lighter on the Kmart scale.  

Took three constipation pills last night.  

Started taking them three days ago. 

They are just kicking in. 

Think I voided half a kilo of shit today.  

The Kmart scales are registering that at least. 

More veggies, more fruit and more water.  

Will aid in freeing up the bowels. 

The shits earlier in the week really damaged the inner wall of my anus. 

But with the Laxative with Softener, it’s making taking a crap less painful. 

I feel lighter.  

I look lighter. 

I swear to god, just today, the stomach has flattened. 

Amazon surprised me with $150 deposited into my bank account. 

Then my police offer called to say my former employer was going to be charged with criminal assault. Progress. 

Thanks Dr. Kilaji, for the wonderful report.  

Waiting for a physio report. 

It’s really a patience game.  

And Tim Jardine, my lawyer, really seems clued in. 

Everything is falling into place.  

So don’t lose the plot.  

Good things are coming your way. 

Even chatted to Mark Rogers today. 

He fired me off the first of his trilogy on the white Jamaican witch. 

I will start on it today and break my reading drought.  

I just find it hard to read from real books.  

Not as convenient as reading from a screen. 

You don’t need the lights on to read, either.  

I’ve got nine more pills left, as of today.  

I aim to lose another three kilos. 

That will make ten lost in a month.  

It will mean I’m down to 104 from 114. 

That’s my aim.  

Who knows, I could lose more. 

Daniel was very impressed with my weight loss. 

He says after week three, you don’t lose as much. 

So I better prove him wrong.  

He’s the owner of the chemist shop, he told me. 

I told him how I met the Indian owner at Highclere.  

‘You have great staff, really friendly,’ I told him while updating him about my teeth and weight loss.  

The poor Indian couldn’t run fast enough away from me. 

So Daniel says he is his partner in the Highclere branch and he owns the one at Wade Court. 

‘I brought the scales from home,’ he said. 

So it must be accurate, I told him.  

He wants me to lose weight as much as I do. 

It’s great that they let me hang around, talking to staff and weighing myself.  

It’s therapy.  

Chemists love nothing more than talking about drugs. 

And I can easily tap into that. 

They spent four years learning it, and want to share their knowledge, I’ve found.  

Feeling a slight swelling or infection around the canine tooth. 

Nothing too bad. 

But yes, the miasma is coming back.  

Fingers crossed it doesn’t swell up. 

Tapping the tooth, I feel the pain deep inside. 

That’s a tell-tale sign something is going on. 

Nothing major.  

Had a lot worse. 

Second treatment should clean out the gunk. 

Hopefully.  

Popped Duromine around 4.30. 

It’s really kicking in, after two coffees.  

It’s a glorious day. 

Police charges and an Amazon payment. 

And the work- out. 

Duromine is working on a level I had no idea it could.  

I’ve lost seven kilograms.  

In less than three weeks. 

I’m now working on my stomach.  

Here’s the chance to tighten those muscles. 

Wolf Mask says aim for 90 kilos.  

85 is better. 

‘And how are you going to keep it off?’ 

Good question.  

By watching what I eat.  

My track suit pants are the first signs that I’m losing weight.  

There’s a lot of give now. 

You won’t even recognize me Mr. I Own Seven Houses.  

I won’t even recognize myself. 

Try not to sleep today. 

Come on, you are on speed.  

Is it going to be that hard?? 

I miss Ms. Rivers.  

Her Botox lips. 

I’ll be paying them a visit in due time. 

If I really apply myself, I could be down another kilo by the end of week three tomorrow.  

Wouldn’t that be great.  

It would take me to 106. 

But if I lost two, I’d be down to 105. 

Creeping closer. 

As Wolf Mask says, once you pass a benchmark, it seems to become easier. 

Be good to yourself. 

You are worthy of it.  

Never be like Wrinkle Lips. 

Just be humble at who you are. 

And be humble about getting better. 

Drank five coffees and missed out on afternoon sleep. 

I’m happy about that. 

I shouldn’t be sleeping during the day. 

That’s another bad habit creeping back. 

I also ate last night. 

The midnight snacks. 

Not good either.  

But I ate vegetables. 

I’ll take a walk at 5.30. 

I popped two laxatives this afternoon. 

Until I’m drinking enough water, I’ll rely up on them until my anus clears up. 

It’s been battered by hard shit. 

Feeling better today. 

The softener is helping.  

Duromine does its job but we must also do our job to keep up. 

Nine more pills left. 

Nine more days.  

It’s a long month on Duromine.  

Never bored.  

Also interested.  

I don’t think I could work on this shit.  

No, I didn’t enjoy being a fat slob. 

It just worked out that way. 

Now that I’m seeing a cunt growing in my obese stomach, I must act. 

But I could fuck the self-grown cunt, might be another story. 

As it already is, I’m fucking my naval button.  

Gross, isn’t it? 

It’s deep and full of rich fat. 

Great for fucking.  

It’s an effort. 

But once inside the naval button and with enough spit, you have yourself a cunt. 

Had another shit. 

Blood. 

Not much. 

Need to take things really easy. 

Ok, don’t worry. 

Just yet. 

It will get better. 

More fibre. 

Softer food.  

Don’t panic. 

You were expecting it. 

It felt painful.  

Now you know. 

Keep an eye on it. 

Get ready for a walk.  

Stop pissing.  

Duromine, you never said it would be easy. 

Anal fissure is what it’s called. 

Might have to change laxatives. 

Get one that turns things to liquid. 

I have faith things will come good.  

I really do. 

Walked 13 kilometres.  

It’s 13.3 degrees. 

Not a bad walk. 

Bought some laxative solution.  

See if that’s more effective than what I have. 

Get rid of some shit. 

Entertaining myself.  

Kilometre by kilometre.  

It was a tough walk.  

I think about trying on clothes in the changing room. 

That motivates me. 

Those love-handles get in the way. 

I need rapid weight loss. 

You can’t do that without walking 20 kilometres a day and having diarrhea.  

Duromine makes everything possible. 

Drinking carrot juice.  

Might buy four litres of juice a day.  

It’s an outlay.  

But if it will help keep the nutrients up, and hydrate me, then a good investment.  

My ass didn’t really hurt. 

Didn’t have a diarrhea attack. 

I’m back in my room. 

A shower is needed. 

Bought some soup.  

And baguette. 

Mr. Fucking Lee Kwan Yew, you can’t be very happy today. 

The cocky bastard doesn’t think he has a problem.  

But it’s all adding up. 

He’s losing money from a few fronts. 

And I’m happy about that.  

I jump in the shower and I look like a fat fuck. 

On the Kmart scale I’m just under 110.  

And it’s one stone over.  

Told Bongo the poet I lost seven kilograms so far. 

He said that was a stone.  

Who uses stone anymore? 

But it sounded good.  

The real fat is revealed in the evening shower. 

I massaged my anus in the shower and let out an almighty roar.  

I felt the sensitive bit. 

Stomach bloated after taking two laxatives earlier. 

Or was it all the nicotine, coffee and citrus fruit and bananas? 

Who knows? 

Will take a satchel of laxatives tomorrow morning and see how it eases  

the shit coming out of my ass. 

The chemist, Mr. Ming, swore by it. 

It was more expensive than the usual stuff. 

So it must be better, right. 

I’m going to give it a try. 

This one doesn’t strip the water from your body, said Ming. 

Let’s see.  

It’s got to be faster-acting than tablets. 

It’s the walking that helps me lose weight.  

Lots of walking and Duromine and watching what you eat, is the key. 

Duromine is a friend you need when walking alone in the dark. 

Duromine gives you courage. 

It gives you energy when you need it. 

Duromine, fight or flight, it’s there for both.  

It’s not like I’ve just started an exercise routine. 

But I am doing more weights.  

I have been lazy with them.  

I am trying.  

What more can you ask? 

You looked skinny during the day. 

Fat and bloated in the evening. 

Enjoy the seasons.  

And keep your eye on the scale. 

It never lies. 

I’m glad the Kmart scale has dropped.  

It dropped a whopping two kilograms.  

That’s more like it.  

Proof that I’m losing weight. 

The bitch was breaking down charcoal in my old room next door. 

Bang.  

That went on for hours. 

So much for peace. 

Not even ear plugs could drown out her banging. 

 

I give up. 

I’m learning to be patient. 

I wonder if she’ll start cooking now. 

She likes to cook late. 

I went to Bongo’s room to tell him that Trang wants him to move his three bikes, again. 

His room really stank. 

It looked dirty. 

I’m not the tidiest.  

But his room is a cesspool. 

Obviously, he doesn’t believe in cleaning. 

Shame that the Kenyan doesn’t clean his room. 

She could do it once a week and he’d be better off. 

But she doesn’t.  

Nor will she. 

He could always tell her. 

But he won’t.  

Maybe he likes the filthy smell of his room.  

He doesn’t ever mop the kitchen floor or clean the toilet. 

I do it.  

But no one will enter his room and clean it.  

So he’s fucked. 

Only he can clean his cesspool room. 

I’m glad I’ve moved rooms.  

I could almost smell his shit from my old room. 

One day he cooked meat on hot coals on a BBQ in his room during the summer.  

Faith was with him.  

Smoke was billowing out of his room and through the granny flat. 

That’s when I concluded that they are both dumb fucks. 

I was coughing. 

I really should have told Trang. 

But I didn’t.  

A lost opportunity.  

All the others when I’ve run to Trang have only made me look petty.  

Congo Bongo has also brought in hookers who fleeced our place.  

They managed to steal ten dollars from the Sri Lankan. 

After that, Trang put a lock on the gate. 

He was sick of young African whores visiting Congo Bongo. 

I should have let the Sri Lankan call the police. 

I said we shouldn’t call the police. 

Look at the gratitude I got.  

I fucked up. 

We could have got him deported.  

I was being nice. 

You don’t be nice to Africans.  

They have short memories and will fuck you over.  

It’s all about who has the most goats.  

But cooking goat meat in your bedroom over coal isn’t the smartest thing to do.  

Had two fried fish sandwiches. 

I think I need calories. 

Tried to take another shit, only gas came out. 

Bonus. 

Ate. 

Congo Bongo is playing a movie, loudly. 

He doesn’t care about Kenya. 

He knows she won’t complain. 

He’s her sponsor. 

You don’t upset your sponsor. 

Instead you do one better, upset me. 

Floor is dirty in the kitchen. 

I only mopped it yesterday. 

I just nod my head. 

Let's have a BBQ in our bedroom and smoke out the house. 

Let's pretend we are in Africa and grind down some charcoal. 

Why she wouldn’t do it in her own room, is beyond me. 

She used to use the other spare room. 

Trang got really pissed off. 

Ms. Queen Muck doesn’t realize it’s not her house. 

She doesn’t realize it’s a business. 

It’s not a retreat for her to sing and pray and live in her own utopia. 

It’s a granny flat owned by a Vietnamese family who want to make some cash. 

Faith knows all this.  

She’s done well so far. 

I’m flabbergasted why Congo Bongo is paying for her. 

‘Stop being nosey.’  

Yeah, you are right Faith, it’s a boring subject. 

And if I’m not paying for it, why should I worry. 

Popped the pill about 3.30. 

Slept early. 

No knocking on my door by the Kenyan. 

Fuck she can knock hard for a tiny girl with massive black tits. 

She was banging next door on a piece of coal. 

Do I lock the door so she can’t enter? 

Maybe for a brief moment she thought she was in Africa. 

Woke up at 6 today. 

The bitch is awake. 

I can see the kitchen light on. 

Good for her. 

Wondering if she’ll bang on my door. 

I’m trying out some new techno music. 

What have you got planned for me today Ms. Duromine? 

Three weeks I’ve been taking them. 

I’ve lost weight. 

Can’t deny that. 

Written a book in three weeks too. 

Not bad.  

With lots of repetition. 

What more can you ask in a book? 

I need a coffee to kick the Duromine in. 

It doesn’t even work when I take it during the night and go back to sleep. 

Talk about consideration. 

Think often of the Nepalese dog. 

Never hear boo from him. 

God he was a great actor. 

Vincent made matters worse. 

Vincent is the real dog. 

At least the Nepalese dog had the good grace to play along. 

Sick of the fucking Indians. 

The Nepalese. 

They are from another planet. 

The dog was the dog. 

No one else can be the dog. 

He was a good friend. 

I can’t deny that. 

I’m in his room now. 

It is a great room. 

RIP Dog. 

You have been replaced by Congo Bongo, he’s the black dog. 

And I’m fatty. 

Right? 

Not for much longer. 

Just wait until you are on the Duromine 40 mg. 

Man, even more power.  

More addiction. 

More techno. 

More talking. 

Duromine, you are an endless source of inspiration. 

Some ass-wipe called me at 6 am. Hidden number. 

A coincidence. 

Was Mr. Fucking Ex-employer behind it? 

Paranoid. 

Steady.  

‘Two cops are looking for you.’  

Wrong, looking for you. 

You took the wind out of me and I’ll take the wind out of you. 

I’m glad you are cashed up. 

It helps my cause. 

You better get some big contracts; you are going to need it. 

I resisted a snack last night. 

I really did. 

Back to old habits. 

I was only going to have one banana sandwich. 

I still had some baguette left over. 

I resisted. 

Don’t know how I did. 

Take the laxative. 

Let’s see if the powder form is gentler.  

I’ve not spoken much about Mr. Commander since I’ve been on Duromine.  

Duromine has taken me to other places. 

‘I’m going to fuck him over.’ 

That’s what I told my doctor. 

He wrote in my medical report that I had extreme whiplash. 

He wants me to fuck him over too. 

I love my doctor. 

First time I saw him he didn’t charge me. 

I didn’t have a Medicare card. 

Hadn’t had one for over twenty years. 

He knew I’d get it sorted out. 

If the telco operator is devoid of contact, he’s powerless. 

He needs to be in your face to be effective. 

Salespersons never get sales over the phone or via email. 

They need to be in your face, so you can see their dyed hair, 

 crowned teeth and soft skin that just had a facial the day before. 

A salesperson hates being locked out of communication. 

That’s when they are most vulnerable. 

Mr. Fucking Ex-employer hasn’t got a clue what is coming for him.  

And it’s not a bully who loves king hitting. 

It’s something worse. 

The Law.  

Had amazing shit. 

They fell out. 

One, two, three, four. 

And some more. 

Only a little bit of bleeding. 

Didn’t want to push out anymore. 

You don’t want to force them out. 

Seems that powered laxative acted fast. 

Maybe too fast. 

Maybe it was the laxatives I took yesterday afternoon. 

Maybe the stuff I took today will work late. 

The shit was browner, in colour. 

Was that brown with blood? 

I don’t think so. 

It was just a bit evil from too much coffee. 

Still, the shit is out and I’m feeling lighter and less bloated. 

Mornings are time for reflecting. 

Have I lost weight? 

Could check the scales. 

It’s three weeks on Duromine. 

I’m surprised I’ve lasted so long. 

It felt like six months.  

I might go back to sleep. 

It’s been a busy day. 

Sinus infection coming back but no swelling. 

Round two, hopefully will eliminate those germs. 

I’m just not really worried.  

Little pain when I took a shit today. 

Is it healing up? 

Aches and pains from yesterday’s workout. 

Too much time watching porn. 

What is a man to do? 

Forced myself to stay awake with lots of coffee. 

Need to buy more. 

A sleep would have been nice. 

13 kilometres, not a bad walk. 

It all helps.  

I felt bloated on the walk. 

It was the laxatives. 

Had no idea they bloated you until I spoke to Ming at the Kingsway Chemist. 

He was quite understanding. 

‘I have an anal fissure.’ 

Interesting. 

‘Have you tried these?’ 

Nope, but I will. 

I was worried that the other laxatives were counterintuitive. 

They were bloating me. 

So I’m trying out Molaxole. 

Mix the powder with water and drink. 

Even has electrolyte salts in it. 

My kind of laxative, fast-acting too. 

Before I took a crap, I was firing away salvos of farts. 

It was going to be a good shit. 

I just locked the door of my old room. 

Why encourage the bitch to use the room again to break charcoal? 

Congo Bongo grabs two pieces from the bag. 

‘Don’t break it up, it’s too noisy,’ I said. 

‘I’m going to eat it,’ he said. 

I spent a lot of time walking to avoid them. 

Queen Muck has no consideration for anyone but herself. 

She’s proved that. 

If Trang knew what she was doing, she’d be booted out. 

‘Trang told me to keep that door locked at all times.’ 

That’s what I’ll tell them if they ask why it’s locked. 

It’s locked so you can’t go inside and break down a piece of charcoal. 

Get it? 

I’m feeling buoyantly optimistic about losing weight. 

Then I look in the mirror. 

Power walked 13 kilometres tonight. 

It felt great. 

Duromine has been coursing in my veins. 

Dr. Kilaji seemed disturbed when he saw me today. 

‘Take a seat.’  

His patient, a late aging female, closer to sixty, was using crutches. 

He didn’t collide with her. 

Relayed to his wife that my lawyer wants medical records,  

and the police are pressing charges against Fuckwit, my former employer. 

My doctor is overworked. 

Stressed. 

I weighed in at 107.00. 

Next door at the chemist, it had to be 106, right? 

‘Yes,’ said the chemist, an Iraqi, who was working at the Highclere branch,  

‘I’ve weighed myself on the doctor’s scale and it’s one kilo over.  

But the one at the chemist is exactly as the one at home.’ 

Same reading. Even the doctor's wife said his scale was one kilogram over. 

I must be careful not to offend. 

Who are you trying to kid? 

Telling the receptionist at the physio that I was constipated isn’t winning me any friends. 

But Jordon jumped it, saying, these days people are getting transplants of good stools.  

Probiotics. 

Get the right colony and the colon is going to work just fine. 

I can’t give up the battle.  

I want to win this one.  

I need to draw upon my athletic past. 

I have that to help me. 

Even Wolf Mask said so. 

Let’s see if there are any more surprises. 

Was showing Rosa my stomach today. 

She seems to enjoy my Duromine antics. 

I was avoiding her for fear of coming across as over the top. 

Nope, she likes me just the way I am. 

Moreover the top. 

A little constipated.  

Cooked up a satchel of laxatives. 

I’ll give it time. 

Still got seven pills left. 

So even if I start losing that two kilograms from tomorrow 

I'm on track for losing them this month. 

I just can’t believe Duromine. 

It’s a miracle drug. 

Where else can you lose ten kilos in a month? 

Or seven in three weeks, as I have? 

There is nowhere else. 

Popped pill around 3.30. 

Woke up at five. 

Just playing around. 

Even if I have a shit later, I’m ok with that. 

I just don’t want to force it out. 

After I have a shit, I’ll feel lighter. 

I’m feeling good. 

Slept early last night. 

Had a powerful walk. 

I paid my respects to two road kills I encountered. 

I haven’t slipped since. 

That was one day before I took Duromine. 

Nearly buckled my knee. 

Gravel on the footpath. 

Fuck, there goes my dodgy knee.  

Now I show my respect and acknowledge the two spirits. 

My knee was ok, I could hobble home that night. 

It was a fair warning. 

There’s another cross on the corner, just up the road.  

You’d be surprised how many people started their day driving a car and 

ended up dead from an accident. 

You’d be very surprised. 

Cars are trying to kill me daily.  

But I look fantastic in the mirror. 

Big gut is not so big. 

The cunt that was forming at the bottom of my gut is dissolving into an asshole. 

Yet according to the scale, I’ve put on four kilograms since last night. 

I’m just flabbergasted.  

But not perturbed. 

It’s all mind games. 

And I can play them too. 

Actually too good. 

Just had a shit. 

Lost four kilos. 

A very condensed shit. 

It hurt, but not a lot. 

Slowly, one turd at a time. 

I was telling this to Rosa yesterday, demonstrating how it came out. 

I hope her brother wasn’t watching the CCTV cameras. 

Especially when I was showing her my stomach and how much I had lost. 

No blood. 

Just a little stabbing pain, bearable. 

I’m happy. 

It could have been worse. 

Let’s see if the laxatives work again later. 

A double shit. 

The scale is playing with me. 

Is it possible to have two kilograms condensed in a few compact turds? 

Very cold.  

I love the mornings. 

I love the option of hitting the sleep button too. 

Ideal conditions for losing weight. 

I reckon there’ll be another half kilo in the follow-up shit. 

Remember, you have exactly one week of pills left. 

You took one today, so that’s eight. 

We really want to lose another two kilograms over the next week,  

to bump the month’s total to ten kilograms. 

That will get me to 104, the lightest I’ve been for many years. 

The next four kilos on 40 mg of Duromine should be easy.  

That’s week five, hopefully. 

Once you get under 100, that's the time to really start rapping  

about the powers of Duromine. 

I know no one gives a fuck about my weight loss. 

I do, and so does my weight mentor, and that’s what matters. 

If Congo Bongo wasn’t here it would be a better place. 

He’s just one filth ball with two legs. 

I give up. 

Back to porn. 

The scales can wait another day. 

Remember, give scales a rest. 

Feel your way. 

You have only lost liquid. 

Wait till the love handles drop off. 

Then you are on your way. 

Physio went well. 

‘I’m a sceptic,’ I told him. 

I’m cynical as well. 

Let’s see how the treatment goes. 

I’m walking better, faster, and my lower back feels aligned. 

So far, so good, audience.  

I’m enjoying the process. 

It’s not costing me at the moment. 

And I’m learning a lot about the body. 

I’ll be picking your brain more, soon. 

Went back to sleep.  

It was still hovering around 7 degrees. 

I got the chills. 

Two wanks later, just resurfaced. 

My piss bucket is a life saver. 

Must have pissed a litre since I Rosa at 5 in the morning. 

Faith was already awake. 

I weighed myself again, just under 110. 

I still think the scales are out by four kilograms. 

It’s disheartening and confusing. 

I might need to take another satchel of laxatives. 

I’m farting a lot. 

Feeling bloated. 

Must be the laxatives. 

But no bleeding today. 

Just a bit uncomfortable. 

Ears feeling blocked, infected, or both. 

Putting in dirty ear plugs day in and day out is most likely the reason. 

I have an aversion to slamming doors. 

Always have. 

More so on the Duromine. 

Wondering if it’s tetanus I caught while helping out the Magistrate. 

I had a rusty nail in my foot at least once a week for months. 

It was the real torture chamber. 

Imagine having someone stab you with a rusty nail. 

Yes, that’s how it felt. 

Mopped my room. 

With bleach.  

Cleaned the toilet. 

Mopped the floor. 

Bleached the lid and inside the bowl. 

Even mopped a meter to the right and left of my door. 

It was getting dirty. 

I didn’t go any further. 

I don’t need to clean and mop the whole corridor. 

Though it’s dirty, it’s not my job. 

I’ll let the Africans walk into Congo Bongo’s filth. 

Rosa wanted to pray. 

But she didn’t have any candles. 

The Chinese shop is closed, I told her. I prepared for a walk 

She was upset. 

‘But how can I pray for you without candles.’  

Wait till tomorrow I said. 

I detoured on my walk and bought her mango and papaya flavoured candles. 

Only five dollars for a pack of six, I said it should do for your prayers tonight. 

‘Thanks dear,’ said Rosa, as she hung up the phone. 

It was the least I could do for her. 

She fed me coffee all afternoon and I clouded her kitchen with vape fumes. 

I’ll look in on her soon. 

She’ll want me to buy her some candles, if Betsy hasn't already. 

Spoke to her brother, Frank. 

Not only is Rosa annoying him, so am I. 

I’m an emergency, I said, so please don’t hesitate to call if Rosa needs me. 

Rosa doesn’t like the cameras. 

She thinks her brother is listening to her. 

I know how she feels. 

A criminal in her own home. 

That’s how it looks. 

Frank said that her current phone line has unlimited calls to Malaysia. 

Rosa said she rarely calls Malaysia. 

‘He does, he’s calling up his other wife.’  

I’ll let Frank decide what is best. 

I really shouldn’t have pushed when I said he could get a VOIP line. 

And faster internet to run the CCTV cameras. 

And all for the same price of ADSL 2, which relays the internet through  

low bandwidth on copper wires, which will eventually be pulled out. 

But I couldn’t help myself. 

Just had second shit.  

It was nearing three pm. 

It came out gently. 

No blood. 

Been working out. 

And moved another table and my chair into my room. 

Almost back to the good old days. 

Moved that solid wardrobe which brings me solace and ballast. 

We are creatures attached to things. 

It has been an amazing day. 

Yes, Rosa, I feel you did pray for me. 

I’m salvaging the day.  

I might weigh myself. 

It’s always in the afternoons that I get best results. 

That laxative powder is working like a charm. 

I’m glad I bought it. 

Anal fissure. 

That really got the Iraqi chemist laughing. 

He has Sesame Street eyes. 

The cookie monster, perhaps.  

He loved that. 

I’m going to fuck that guy over. 

I was talking about Mr. Fucking Ex-employer. 

‘Let's go fifty-fifty, I’ll help all I can.’  

How can you help? 

He was only joking.  

I thanked him for the support. 

Then he blew me off. 

I know when I’ve outstayed my welcome. 

He laughed. 

Man, Duromine got me by the balls yesterday. 

Today it’s been mellow, all day long. 

Sometimes you need to catch up on your sleep. 

It’s a big part of the treatment. 

I’m on about 110 on the Kmart scales. 

Not bad.  

I’ve dropped two kilos today.  

According to my Kmart scales, I’ve only lost four. 

So what if under 100 on those scales? 

It will be a miracle. 

Maybe it’s a challenge. 

Ok, hang up washing, enjoy some good tunes and rest some more. 

Good weight workout. 

Keep that up. 

It will tone up the muscles as the skin gets closer. 

It will tighten my skin.  

Don’t get too excited.  

Still a week to produce some great work.  

Don’t give up. 

Ok? 

You are on track.  

Alone time is also good for the soul.  

You need that just as much as mixing and talking shit. 

Alone time is premium.  

Congo Bongo is using an electric cooker in his room to cook his bush meat. 

I’m doubly happy I’m not next door. 

‘Don’t let Madam see you doing that, she’ll kick you out.’  

He will never listen to my advice. 

It comes across as telling him something to do. 

I don’t care. 

I hope he gets caught.  

Another all-time low. 

The place will go up in flames one day. 

Mark my words! 

I try hard to keep out of the African affairs. 

It’s better for me. 

I told him about my different weight measurements on different scales. 

‘It’s bad for sickness.’  

I think he was talking about all the grease on the cooking tray he was washing in the sink. 

Lost in translation again.  

He’s playing loud music.  

She grinds up coal in the spare room.  

And he cooks his chicken on the electric cooker in his room.  

Each to their own I suppose. 

Now I know why his room stinks.  

Another mystery solved.  

Have to say I wasn’t surprised. 

Since I locked my old room, Ms. Queen Muck hasn’t been there. 

You think she’d learn. 

Trang only likes us to stay in our own rooms. 

I hope there isn’t charcoal left in the room. 

Trang will blame me. 

Check that out one day.  

Cover your ass. 

The Africans want you out. 

They are cosy already. 

They'll be even more cosy without you. 

Note to self. 

She’s already ruined my reputation here.  

That’s another story I hope to go into. 

Her trances. 

Her body language. 

Her voodoo demeanour. 

Her spells.  

Her curses. 

Yes, I’ll go into that.  

Too good not too. 

The Africans of threat.  

Fascinating. 

But never nice being on the receiving end of it.  

Pissing again.  

Duromine flares up. 

God bless and we salute you. 

It’s the only way a middle-aged man can lose weight. 

Tried it with exercise.  

The fat refuses to come off. 

With a bit of help from my chemical friend, I think we can do this together.  

Faith plays the good victim.  

Instead of cleaning up, as she was told, she cursed me in her room. 

Africans, you are never going to understand their treachery. 

Soon they’ll be behaving like the abo’s asking for pay outs. 

That’s next.  

Once they figure out how to tick the box that says they 

are Indigenous or Torres Strait Islander. 

I am smarter than the average bear. 

And I’ll be crucified at the cross for telling the truth. 

Jordan, my six-foot six physio says I’ll most likely get a pay-out. 

I thought I was your first patient who was getting work under a compensation claim. 

He laughed. 

We are understanding each other’s humour. 

And I’m showing him respect. 

He knows that.  

He deserves it too. 

A real gentleman.  

Where are you, Michael Steward? 

You were like a father to me. 

Down to 108 on Kmart scales. 

The last shit helped. 

Three shifts today. 

Don’t feel so bloated. 

Pretty much power-walked ten kilometres 

A car stopped down the road and waited for me to cross. 

Then I looked as it turned on the main road and the lady in the  

passenger seat had her neck extended back looking towards me. 

Hope it wasn’t ass-wipe’s and crack heads. 

If it was, man I was ready to fuck them. 

Maybe spring is in the air, earlier. 

With everyone cooped up in their houses, maybe the women are getting horny. 

Do I mean to mention Covid? 

I should, it’s a pandemic, but life has never been so good for me. 

I don’t socialize anyway. 

So walking alone at night is just a natural thing to do. 

I do hug a few trees and water them. 

So there is some socializing. 

Some of those eucalyptus trees are just hunks. 

Giants. 

You don’t realize it until you take a piss at the base, hiding from  

any pedestrians or cars or crackheads. 

Finding a private spot for a piss is really hard work 

Duromine kicked in while I was walking. 

Thanks for that.  

I needed the boost. 

If I’m going to lose another two kilograms this week, 

I’m going to need to power- walk, pump those arms and sweat like a pig. 

It’s the only way. 

Instead of walking 16 kms. tonight, I did ten, but very fast.  

Got to mix things up.  

If you don’t eat on this shit, you buzz all day. 

Hope I can get my shitting sorted out. 

Hurts, but no blood.  

That satchel laxative is working like a treat.  

Took two of them today and will take one tonight for tomorrow’s bowel movement. 

Foresight on my part to actually buy it the other night. 

Phone fell twice. 

A guy with his dog told me the first time. 

‘I don’t need a phone,’ he said. 

I’m glad I said hello to him. 

Wouldn’t have noticed the fallen phone a kilometre later. 

Then it fell out of my pocket near home. 

Flat on the road. 

No damage.  

Lucky day for me. 

Little chip on frame outside camera. 

Looks like the lens is damaged.  

But I just can’t actually see.  

Camera seems to work well. 

As I said, a magic walk. 

Lots of hills and pumping. 

I don’t look graceful. 

I don’t intend to. 

I think of the walker from Hash Harriers.  

He walked for Australia in the Olympics. 

I think of him when I walk. 

I am Willy.  

And I will burn stomach fat doing the faggot walk. 

It’s the most powerful walking and you can go on forever. 

It’s easier on your knees too.  

Threw out the dog’s rubbish. 

He knows it's a magic bin. 

It gets emptied by itself. 

You have to give it to the dog. 

In two years he has never thrown rubbish out. 

When he does, it’s more because someone has asked him to do it,  

forcefully, otherwise he’d just leave it for someone else to throw out. 

If only Trang knew. 

 

But he’s too good an actor. 

He’s just liked the Nepalese dog but even better. 

The Nepalese dog was just lazy. 

But Congo Bongo has made an art form of it. 

Enough said.  

I’ve got to eat, and my ass is burning. 

More Congo Bongo magic. 

He once said to Faith that he never threw out the rubbish bin 

because it was always half empty. 

What a fucking philosopher-genius. 

He stacked up the bin till it was overflowing, and bottles around the bin to be thrown out. 

Half full, or half empty, the primitive always has an excuse. 

The only refugee to throw out the bin the Vietnamese. 

The others, a mix of students and fake refugees, refused to throw the bin out.  

One day the dog is going to get caught out. 

It’s been four years here, and no one except me, has caught him out. 

But he has no shame. 

He continues being a lazy cunt. 

He’s won the lottery by coming to Australia and intends to ride it for all its worth.  

God bless you Congo Bongo, I love being your white slave. 

If I didn’t throw the rubbish out, there’d be maggots on the floor. 

He knows that. 

He probably has maggots in his room. 

Hope he gets poisoned by his filth, that would be hilarious. 

There are tell-tale signs that he’s been hit over the head with a shovel. 

Probably for not throwing the rubbish out. 

Now he can’t remember if he should throw the rubbish or not. 

But he does know where he can place the rubbish for it to mysteriously disappear. 

Congo Bongo hates dirty things. 

Once saw him at the sink pick up a dirty cloth with the points of his fingers, as if he was going to catch Ebola if he touched it. 

He’s a fucking pussy. 

Bet he sucks cock down the road to supplement his income from the government.  

My ass hurts. 

Ate my veggies.  

Roasted vegetables. 

I’ve craved that for over a year now. 

A wonderful meal. 

Let's not talk about the Africans.  

There are worse people to live with, like that dog from Armadale. 

But I just hate unreasonable people. 

The African way is one way. 

But I’m feeling fine. 

Time to change the subject. 

This is sounding like one big moan. 

Better you find your own place if you don’t like here said Faith. 

Easy for her to say, she hasn't paid rent for nearly two years. 

Congo Bongo pays it. 

What a fucking idiot. 

Faith is a white chick in a black body. 

I just figured this out, I told Rosa yesterday. 

She was fascinated with my theory. 

Rosa says I’ve got nice teeth. 

I looked at them today. 

Last night I had taken a video, checking if the lens wasn’t damaged. 

And she is right, my teeth really are nice. 

Sunday has arrived. 

Starting the day with good techno. 

Something heavier. 

I believe Duromine is accelerated by techno. 

It appeals to the pseudoephedrine in her makeup. 

Yesterday I got caught up in the scale obsession. 

Today I won’t. 

Slept well last night. 

Room is totally transformed. 

I’ve got six more pills left. 

They are staring at me. 

Six more days of joy. 

I popped the pill around 5 am today.  

Then I went back to sleep for four more hours. 

Sinus is clearing up. 

I’m not lying. 

It was playing up, now it’s healing. 

I’m 104. 

Confirmed on Rosa’s two scales. 

Both from Christmas Island. 

Tested her on my scale. 

It was four kgs out. 

I’ve lost ten kilos in three weeks. 

It’s totally official. 

Walked 14.5 kms. 

My app said under 13 km. 

So how many more have I done that haven’t been accounted for? 

Lots of hope. 

It pelted down rain the last three kilometres. 

So I ran. 

The knee was fine. 

I’m running, carrying ten kilos less. 

I could feel it. 

I can’t be complacent. 

More hard work ahead. 

Much more. 

Need work on my stomach. 

More sit-ups required. 

The dog is quiet. 

Hope he’s gone to see his sister in Fremantle. 

He’s a noisy dirty cunt. 

But this account isn’t about him. 

I have new ear plugs and can block him out. 

But I can’t block out the smell coming from his room. 

I’m far enough to get a break from it. 

I’m going to cook up some rice. 

A simple dish. 

I had four slices of bread over at Rosa’s place. 

I was hungry. 

So was the cat. 

It was making a racket. 

I feel sorry for the cat. 

But it knows how to get Rosa’s attention. 

Spent seven hours over at Rosa’s house. 

I ranted and raved. Showed how much weight I lost. 

I also showed her all the hotels and dentists I had stayed and seen on my travels. 

She seemed genuinely interested. 

And even if she wasn’t, it sure interested me. 

Had my cereal with bran. 

Or fibre. 

Need to take the two satchels of laxative powder tonight for an almighty soft poop tomorrow. 

I’m still not out of the shit. 

Had rice, tuna and veggies over rice today. 

Really filling and healthier than fried rice. 

I’m bloated. 

But 104 is better than 114. 

Still lots of great work. 

I didn’t rest on my laurels. 

Rosa met Wolf Mask when I called him today. 

He was very respectful towards her. 

I made her feel wanted and special today. 

And I drank most of her coffee. 

And pissed and shitted in her toilet. 

Wonder if I’ve outstayed my welcome. 

I even mopped the toilet clean. 

And cleaned the bowl with chemicals. 

Gosh I’m considerate like that. 

So Google Fit was short by 1.5 kilometres. 

Reminds me of the Kmart scales. 

Seems everyone is screwing me over. 

Had some cereal. 

Then prepared two satchels. 

I started bloating up. 

My heart was bursting at the seams. 

I ran to the toilet, put my finger down my throat and vomited up what 

was bloating my stomach. 

I had visions of the laxative binding to the food and expanding. 

That’s how it felt. 

Quick thinking on my behalf. 

I used to vomit out food in my twenties. 

It was how I stayed trim. 

Started it from age 18 onwards. 

A great way to control calorie intake. 

What goes in, is vomited out. 

Putting fingers down your throat works like a charm. 

Think I can hear the dog banging around in the kitchen. 

I don’t trust him. 

It’s not in his best interest to be quiet. 

All around here, there are Africans.  

And they all look like Congo Bongo. 

Clones of each other. 

I’ve got my new ear plugs in. 

They are made in the USA. 

They are fantastic and easy to put in the ear. 

The dog has been playing his shit loud. 

Really loud.  

He has a large speaker. 

No one can compete with that kind of speaker. 

Living in the room next to his was hell. 

I can’t thank Trang enough for giving me permission to move rooms, again. 

The dog is dirty, noisy and selfish. 

He pretends he isn’t, but he is. 

Wonder if his clones are any better? 

Popped pill at 5 am. 

Went back to sleep and woke up at 10 am. 

First coffee going down. 

Am I really 104 kilos? 

Surely two scales don’t lie. 

There’s a good chance Rosa’s scales are accurate. 

I tested them both. 

On myself and on Rosa. 

But I bloated up with the laxative. 

My stomach was full. 

Brimming over. 

Nothing but a good vomit to sort that out. 

I saved myself from exploding. 

It gushed out in the toilet. 

Have you lost ten kilograms? 

Rosa’s two scales don’t lie. 

They gave the same reading on both scales. 

The only one out was the Kmart scale. 

About four kilograms out. 

Not one, not two, but four. 

Or three and a half, if I want to be honest. 

The Japanese scale is a work of art, made to last. 

I’m feeling a bit fat and bloated. 

Maybe I ate too much. 

Maybe my stomach has shrunk. 

Rainy day today. 

Great for walking.  

I need to walk more. 

I’m feeling fitter.  

My strides are longer. 

I can sustain it longer. 

14.5 kms is a nice walk in one go. 

I am not afraid of rain. 

I got drenched. 

I just ran and warmed up. 

Knee loved it. 

I should mix the walk with some running. 

Looked at my face. 

Skin was hanging from under my chin. 

Weight is dripping off my face. 

‘I knew Brian Jones was in on it, the sitar hook.’  

Founder of Rolling Stones, guitarist.  

Died in shady circumstances. 

Second Wave.  

Smothered by fat. 

Trapped.  

Behaviour, defects in character more and more exaggerated.  

Free from the gravity of earth. 

Speed is close to lust and madness, always. 

Weighed myself at the Chemist. 

‘You were 110 last time you measured yourself,’ said Andy. 

Today I weighed in at 106. 

It could have been closer to 107. 

Rosa’s scales had me at 103 today. 

I’m still doing well. 

I’ll stick with the chemist’s scale. 

I walked 13 kilometres hard tonight. 

I’m the Lord of the Night. 

I will Duromine on my long solitude walks. 

I will, will, will for a better day. 

I stripped off in Rosa’s bathroom today. 

‘You are naked,’ she said. 

‘No, I have underwear on,’ I replied. 

She noticed my Thai tattoos. 

That seemed to make her happy knowing something more about me. 

She didn’t seem freaked out. 

I hope not. 

Maybe it’s the first titillation she’s had for a long time. 

But I’m not giving up. 

I know I need to lose another two kilograms to make it to 104. 

That’s ten kilograms in a month, stripped off my bones. 

I can do it. 

 

I’m close. 

False hope yesterday. 

I can live through it. 

I still have the motivation. 

I’ll be down to 104 very soon. 

Just keep on doing the work. 

I told Bongo I lost 8 kilos in three weeks. 

‘That’s very good,’ he said. 

He was genuinely impressed. 

A great actor, should I say.  

And so should I be. 

I’m doing very well. 

I weighed in at 109 on my Kmart scales. 

Take four from that, making it 105. 

At the end of the day I’ll be going with the doctor’s scale. 

You don’t lose pounds easily. 

It really takes discipline and hard work. 

The next five kilograms won’t be easy. 

But I’ll do it. 

I’ve lost eight kilograms in three weeks. 

Let that sink in. 

Even if I lose sixteen kilos over two months, it will be an amazing effort and worth every moment of an anal fissure. 

No running tonight. 

No rain. 

I’m boycotting Woolworths for now. 

They are all on drugs. 

Coles. 

That’s my place of choice. 

Crumpets, butter and honey. 

Comfort food. 

I indulged. 

Rosa sent me out on food errands today. 

She doesn’t eat very well. 

Resentment is seething for her younger brother. 

I had some salad this afternoon and cheese. 

I could have said fuck and continued eating. 

Instead, I woke up from my afternoon sleep and hit the cold streets. 

And walked and walked some more. 

13 kms. in ten-degree heat. 

That’s how you lose weight over winter. 

It isn’t by taking Duromine and talking your head off in front of the television. 

Feel a bit bloated. 

Farted most of it out. 

Drinking orange juice now. 

The bag of food was heavy. 

I bought more than was comfortable to carry. 

It was good exercise. 

I survived. 

Knee holding up very well, thank you. 

The things I do for you. 

Off my head, day in and day out so that we can reduce the pressure on your knee. 

I love you, knee. 

And I’ll get through anal fissures, constipation, and the end of the world, 

to make you feel more comfortable. 

Two wonderful shits today. 

Figured a way for it to come out easier. 

Working like a charm. 

Walked 15 kilometres today. 

Got a call from the dental clinic. 

Of course I’d like to come in. 

Root canal of the left canine was finished today. 

‘I got out some more blood and puss,’ said Mike. 

It didn’t hurt too much either. 

‘It’s much better than before,’ said Mike. 

An hour and a half later, I paid up. 

‘It might hurt a bit over the next few days, so take care of it.’ 

He’s a miracle worker. 

I’ll be getting the right canine treated next Tuesday. 

Gave Rosa a rest today. 

Frank called up. 

‘Is that Vanya?’ 

Of course it is, but being a hidden call, I couldn’t be sure who it was at first. 

I’m glad Frank didn’t call up to say that Rosa complained because I was standing naked in his sister’s house. 

He thought it was the number of the Telstra employee. 

And yes, I said, Rosa could do with the internet. 

Yes, yes, I’m teaching her and she’s a fast learner. 

He’ll think about it 

Keeps her from being lonely, and on Google Maps, she can travel the world without leaving her house. 

Frank will think about it. 

Thirty kilometres today. 

Getting back to old form. 

Losing two kilograms in the fourth week is now doable. 

I am the Lord of the Night. 

Cloaked in Duromine, I’m invincible. 

 

Ate porridge and toast and honey. 

Drank some water. But never enough. 

Let’s see if I can shit well today. 

Day 27 on Duromine. 

Can’t believe where all the days have gone. 

Need more work on my stomach. 

Feel the flab is breaking down. 

It isn’t pretty. 

Flab never really is. 

Woke up at 7.30 am. 

Took the pill at 3.30 am. 

Saw the dentist yesterday. 

300 dollars later. 

An hour and a half later. 

This could be just what might clear up that infection that has been breeding in my sinuses.  

Money came through from the government. 

It all helps. 

Treatment on another canine tooth next week. 

It’s never pleasant under the needle. 

But things are happening. 

You and Duromine are making it happen. 

‘You might feel uncomfortable for a few days,’ said my dentist. 

He says now the jawbone has a chance to heal. 

I had no idea all the problems an abscess can cause. 

It was an abscess.  

I’m sure of that. 

Dr. Mike says the root canal is the cause of the inflamed sinus. 

And he’s going to sort it out. 

I’m grateful for that. 

I was under the knife for 90 minutes then walked some. 

Feeling flat today. 

It’s called fatigue. 

Back to drinking lots of water. 

Not sure why I stopped. 

That’s why, you piss every three minutes. 

Duromine needs water.  

And I’m obliging. 

Wolf Mask said I need to drink six litres a day. 

It’s sound advice. 

Had four shits today. 

That porridge is working. 

More sound advice from Jodric. 

I’m cleaning out my bowels. 

Weighed myself.  

I have put on two kilograms since this morning. 

That is liquid. 

I look in the mirror and can now grab my stomach fat. 

It’s moving. 

It’s moving. 

I can’t find the word. 

It’s gross. 

But the bloated look and feel is going. 

Great work going on. 

One month, almost, and the stomach is revealing itself, as a flab factory. 

The dog is still slamming the door. 

To get money from the government, he has to see a job provider. 

He has to do English courses. 

He also has to report his income online every fortnight. 

Now this requires possession of a certain intelligence. 

But when it comes to closing the door gently, after being asked a thousand times,  

he just ignores my request and slams it his way. 

Even the landlady gave him a personal lesson on how to close the door gently. 

Given, that Vietnamese cunt changed the lock which made it noisier than before. 

So is Congo Bongo deliberately going out of his way to slam the door? 

You’d think so. 

When I get some money, I’m fucking off from that primitive cunt. 

He plays dumb when it suits him. 

I threw his rubbish out today. 

I have fantasies of smashing his head repeatedly into the rubbish bin then 

on the tile floor until his brains spill all over the floor. 

I even tell Rosa about my fantasies. 

‘The lazy fucking cunt,’ I bitch, daily.  

The primitive can’t do no wrong. 

He used to bring under-age girls here. 

Until Trang locked the side door so they couldn’t barge in and steal what they wanted to. 

Being black, means you can do anything. 

He is king after all. 

I want to fuck him over. 

I want to fuck him over. 

I want to fuck him over. 

But I can’t.  

He’s a non-reflector.  

Nothing reflects.  

‘What is your mission?’ 

I want to fuck you over. 

There’s no telling him to close the door gently. 

He gets all defensive and nasty. 

Peter Dutton send the fucker back to the Congo. 

Let him forage in the rubbish tips of Kinshasa. 

It will be a humiliating lesson. 

I’m not giving up on this diet thing. 

Felt at all time low today. 

You get that. 

You can’t be high all the time. 

Walked 20 kms. today. 

Most of it in the evening. 

Had some physio with Jordan. 

He eased up my knotted back. 

I’m not giving up. 

Still three days to reach 104. 

That’s ten kilograms lost in a month.  

It would be fantastic if I reach my target. 

I’m about 106 or 107 now. 

I’m walking like a mad man to achieve my goal. 

Not even sure if Duromine is in my system by the time of my late evening walks. 

Surely it can’t be in the system for 13 hours plus? 

I won’t give up. 

No pain, no glory. 

It’s humble attacking my fat. 

It’s humble to know I have a fat problem. 

It’s humble to give this a really good go. 

No one said it would be easy. 

Got Wolf Mask, and Jodric, who is showing interest and giving me support. 

What more can you ask? 

One root canal done. 

I did it. 

Second root canal begins next Tuesday. 

I’m getting things done. 

Losing weight? 

I hope so. 

The long walks are helping. 

It’s called good old-fashioned exercise. 

Was happy with my write-up of the black dog yesterday. 

They haven’t got a clue. 

Waiting for a crap. 

I need a morning walk. 

Tap into the power of Duromine. 

I miss Ms. Botox lips. 

I need some inspiration. 

Writing here is my therapy. 

The dog is always home. 

You’ll never see him sweeping floors and mopping them. 

That’s my job. 

He’s just as bad as the Nepalese dog. 

They are the same. 

But the Nepalese dog isn’t on welfare payments. 

But he wants to be. 

Fat fucking chance. 

Go home and grow some corn. 

Sinus didn’t swell up. 

Feels better. 

The sinus swamp has been drained.  

I’m proud that I’ve done it. 

Now, moving on. 

Those prunes and two laxatives emptied me. 

Having a shower and massaging the anus with hot water, allowed for what was clogged up inside to fire out onto the tiles in powerful blasts. 

It was messy. 

Nothing beats shitting in the shower. 

It’s very civilized. 

More and more squirts, peas and carrots, undigested, crowded the shower floor. 

Must have had five or six shots, not counting the two in the toilet. 

Stomach feels bloated. 

I sleep. 

All chaffed up around the ass from the long walk. 

Got a nice tan. 

The sun was out. 

Twenty kilometres later, I arrived home, very tired. 

There was no Duromine to help me today. 

Only in the talking department. 

The walk was done all by me. 

Maybe I’m getting tired, getting tired of Duromine. 

It makes me happy. 

I weighed myself on my Kmart scales after the epic shits, two kilograms lighter.  

I’ve had constipation for a while. 

I believe those prunes I bought at Woolworths today are really great shitting aids. 

The pain of the shit has gone away. 

Always does when you are shutting out semi liquids.  

Stuffing myself with all of the bad. 

White toast, butter and honey. 

Milk from the bottle. 

This dieting is fucking killing me. 

I miss my old carefree life. 

What if I quit now, how long would it take to put those ten kilograms back on? 

Not long at all. 

Dear Duromine. 

I’m tired.  

I’m sick of you fucking with me. 

But boy you make me sound good. 

Tummy is up and down, a bit like my moods. 

Nothing like a Duromine top-up. 

Will you surprise me? 

I suspect you will.  

I can feel it. 

Today was all over the place. 

It wasn’t easy. 

You didn’t want it easy. 

You wanted me to work hard. 

I did. 

And I’m totally fucked.  

Forty milligrams of Duromine is ready. 

Cost me $144.  

Not cheap at all. 

Reminder drink more water. 

Give up hope, get hope. 

Weigh yourself once a week, said Andy. 

That way I won’t be disappointed on a daily basis.  

Helped Rosa with her washing. 

She was having a meat craving. 

She couldn’t find her keys to lock the gate. 

She is just holding on. 

Some days are worse than others. 

But today was one of the better ones. 

Day 30 has arrived. 

I’m waiting for a god almighty crap. 

I’ve got a packet of Duromine 40 mg waiting for me to use tomorrow. 

Lots to report. 

I’m feeling lighter. 

It’s not showing on the scales. 

It’s showing elsewhere. 

Wonderful fast 15 kilometre walk last night. 

Speed is picking up. 

Even dropped into the supermarket to buy some healthy food. 

105 kilograms on the chemist’s scales. 

Take half a kilogram off for clothes and knee brace. 

I’ve lost ten kilograms in a month. 

The 26 kilometre walk certainly helped. 

Rosa is not answering the phone. 

Even called out to her from the gate. 

Hope she’s fine. 

She’s probably just in the shower. 

Told Bongo not to slam the door. 

What does he do? 

I just shake my head in disbelief. 

Got my earplugs in. 

You can’t beat sly-stupid. 

The dog can’t be trusted.  

Onto Duromine 40 mg tomorrow. 

Wolf Mask did two interviews with me today. 

Challenging and always interesting. 

He’s giving me a voice. 

I’m sick to death of the dog. 

He hates white people. 

I called him out on it. 

He didn’t like it. 

Racism is only a word they can use. 

They hate being called a racist. 

Same as being called a primitive. 

Only the primitives can use the primitive word. 

Popped the 40 mg around five thirty today. 

Vape machines are playing up. 

Need a shit. 

Day one on 40 mg of Duromine. 

Can only move forward. 

Hit and miss with the Vietnamese girls over at the supermarket. 

Lexi is playing hard to get. 

But the other one, more Asian looking, seems interested. 

I know they talk about me. 

I’m the freak show. 

I embrace my status. 

They are fun. 

The new one with the blonde dyed hair seems nice. 

The ones just off the boat from Nam seem more understanding. 

Goodbye 30, and hello 40 mg. 

I was feeling the cravings more towards the end. 

I was feeling hungrier. 

Let’s see what we can achieve this month. 

Lots of exercise will help me lose another ten kilograms. 

I need to get under 100. 

That’s my real aim. 

Anything under that is a bonus. 

Need to get back to Java Runs days. 

I had diarrhea. 

Think it was dysentery. 

Great for losing weight. 

Worked like a fucking charm, in retrospect. 

Knee holding up better with less weight on it. 

Jordan doesn’t think it's that bad and cautions against an operation. 

I can feel the 40-kicking in. 

It’s going to be a hell of a ride. 

One crap out the way. 

Only took one laxative last night. 

The prunes did the rest. 

It was a sloppy shit. 

Kmart scale is still hovering around 110. 

I’ll be fucked. 

I won’t be looking for inspiration there. 

But the pill is kicking in. 

Techno is sounding great. 

Rain outside. 

I’ve got an umbrella and boots that are rain resistant. 

Might be a good day for a walk. 

Never give up, rain hail or shine. 

Been a bit slack on writing. 

I need to soften towards the Africans. 

Faith is my pet. 

She gives me special smiles. 

She’s fucking over Congo Bongo. 

For that alone, I salute you dear. 

Wow, I can feel the forty coming on hard and strong. 

It’s not for the weak hearted. 

Dry mouth. 

Drier than on 30 mg. 

Maybe I should test drive it with a walk.  

Before the pissing parade begins. 

Took the pill around six. 

It’s 10.30. 

And I’m feeling its brute strength. 

It’s going to be an interesting month. 

Once I’m under 100, in the two digits, I’m going to really believe in Duromine. 

Must lose four kilograms in the next week. 

I’m aiming high. 

Watch your food intake. 

Watch those afternoon sleeps. 

I think 40 mg is going to kick-start this dieting at another level. 

Most people who lost weight were on the higher dosage, 37.5. 

I am on 40. 

I’m going to blitz this. 

I just have a good feeling about it. 

I must get to 100, making it 14 kilograms lost. 

Only then will I believe that this is worth it. 

You can’t lose 10 kgs in a month just by exercising. 

Be in awe. 

You have done well. 

Exceptionally well. 

Ass still hurts. 

But today’s shit was gentler. 

Kmart scale is being a stubborn bitch. 

Weigh yourself once a week, said Andy. 

Think I might take up his advice. 

‘Take your life back,’ wrote one lady on Duromine. 

Couldn’t have said it any better. 

That’s what it’s all about. 

Farside radio. 

It’s official. 

Love chatting to Wolf Mask. 

He knows me so well. 

So well that he’s kicked me off the show a few times. 

The Duromine is really kicking in. 

Need to get under 100 kilos. 

I can see my cock now. 

It gets hard too. 

Transformation. 

You were right Wolf Mask. 

It’s all about body and mind. 

Harmony. 

Will lift some weights today. 

And work on toning the stomach. 

My Achilles heels. 

This 40 mg is great shit. 

I’m all of a sudden feeling happy. 

The 30 was a drag. 

There was very little value-added stuff towards the end. 

Wolf Mask says I’m committed. 

‘Never heard of anyone losing 10 kgs in a month.’  

I won’t disappoint you. 

I’ll try harder. 

I told Faith I’m the resident psychopath. 

She just gets it. 

She gives me knowing looks. 

She’s my biggest fan. 

I can tell. 

She wants me to lose weight. 

She’s my white girl in a black body. 

I worry about Rosa. 

She seems to be losing her keys more. 

I might look her up later. 

I am drinking more water. 

Aiming for four litres. 

Then some more. 

Constipation almost sorted. 

Had another sloppy shit and weighed in two kilograms lighter. 

I’m taking multivitamins. 

I’ll eat more prunes. 

Getting the root canal of the right canine done on Tuesday. 

I know the swelling in the gums will go down. 

Do the hard work first and let the gums settle down. 

It’s a great day for porn. 

Work on the stomach.  

The abs.  

Now is the time. 

Walking can gain weight. 

The abs can’t. 

Start focusing hard this month. 

Strengthen the muscles around the lower back. 

Walk straighter.  

Use your saved money to take care of your health. 

I’m writing again. 

Proof I was building up a resistance to the 30 mg. 

Losing weight is a science. 

You are learning fast. 

Andy at the chemist has been so supportive. 

So has Daniel, the owner. 

They are a really nice bunch of people. 

Never thought I’d drop in there just to socialize and pick their brains. 

It’s how it’s working out. 

A lady was asking about pills. 

For colds. 

Yes, it has pseudoephedrine, said the chemist. 

A burnt-out crack head was eyeing me off. 

I bet they were getting Codral Flu for cooking up a batch of meth. 

I played dumb. 

And I didn’t give a fuck about the burnt-out meth-head. 

He had seen better days. 

Having good work-out. 

Shitting more gunk out. 

Pissing heaps. 

It’s a cleansing day. 

Not sure if I’ll be hungry tonight. 

A few days off food will do wonders for my bowels. 

This is the month to shine. 

To rise to the occasion. 

It will happen if you let it happen. 

Twenty kilos by the end of month. 

That’s a burden off my chest. 

Ten on 30 mg. pills 

How about 15 on 40 mg? 

It’s in the realms of can do. 

Slowly going insane. 

Up ten mg and Duromine is showing a different face. 

Images, not mine, are invading me. 

What is real and what is dream sequence? 

Had another shit. 

It’s all coming out. 

I’m feeling lighter. 

40 mg is much more intense. 

Hope I can last the distance. 

Feeling better now, writing. 

Knowing that the words I put down are real and mine. 

Not someone else’s memory. 

Duromine is showing another personality. 

Bizarre. 

That’s the only way I can put it. 

Guess it will level off in a few days. 

Great wank sessions. 

Feeling lighter. 

Feeling spaced. 

It’s Sunday. 

Just ride with it. 

Don’t be a prisoner of fat. 

Get rid of that deadweight monkey on your back. 

Your life depends on it. 

Can’t say I dislike the feeling. 

But Duromine has taken me up another level. 

Three or four shits. 

I’m cleaning out my intestines. 

You’ll get through it. 

You need it. 

This is the month to see real results. 

Last month was hard work. 

Now Duromine 40 mg will do the heavy lifting. 

Cock is harder. 

I’m lighter. 

You are going to be fine. 

Ride Duromine today. 

Enjoy it. 

It’s just getting used to handling a higher dosage. 

You aren’t insane yet. 

Weight loss. 

Be good to yourself. 

Why not. 

It wouldn’t hurt. 

Feel the old you. 

Don’t be a prisoner of fat. 

Memory is blurring with Duromine delirium. 

That extra ten mg really makes a big difference. 

The 30 mg prepared you. 

Remember how you felt on the first day of Duromine? 

Now you’ll remember how 40 mg is. 

It kicks the llama’s ass. 

It will level off in due time. 

Pissed heaps. 

Drank heaps. 

Drinking milk now. 

Things will level off soon. 

I’ve had these similar disorientating thoughts before, off Duromine. 

So just ride this trip out baby.  

So pain no glory, right?? 

You know what to expect. 

You didn’t when you first took Duromine. 

 

So ride this one out. 

You aren’t mad. 

The flowing sentences confirm that. 

You are just high. 

Legalized speed. 

You need its help. 

Piss out all your sins. 

This batch isn’t so bad. 

A bit more intense. 

It has to be to stop the cravings. 

It’s the munchies that can ruin a diet. 

Stay vigilant. 

Eat well. 

And don’t give up. 

You are a seasoned pro now.  

Don’t forget that.  

I can hear the dog’s music from my room. 

He’s a dog in all the senses.  

Another coffee, then a walk. 

Let’s see if I’ve got the power.  

Ate four slices of bread with chicken. 

I was hungry. 

Oh the fucking dog! 

He never surprises me. 

It’s not that bad. 

Thought he was out seeing his dog litter in Fremantle. 

Nope, he was in his kennel all along. 

Slept off some of the intensity for an hour or so. 

Feel much better. 

I don’t want to put in ear plugs. 

Wish I could plug them in his eyes and nostrils. 

Let the dog have a taste of what I have to put up with. 

Not really keen to see the Nepalese dog. 

I’m still traumatized by him. 

He got what he deserved. 

I know it sounds mean. 

But let him fuck with other people in his cheapness. 

I had enough of him. 

For now. 

He’s feeling his way. 

He’ll be fine. 

I taught him life skills. 

May the force be with him. 

As to Vincent the dog. 

He’s the betrayer. 

But what came to pass was meant to be. 

Amen.  

I loathe that Congo Dog for many reasons. 

He does everything for that Kenyan bitch.  

She’s black. 

But when I tell him to close the door gently, he still slams. 

‘Madam will fix it one day.’  

Every time I talk to him it’s a loss for me. 

It’s all about power for the Africans. 

Congo Bongo is what you call a smart idiot. 

When the shit hits the fan, he won’t be there to back you up. 

I’ve got my Congo Bongo music on. 

It’s pretty loud too. 

And it’s good music. 

Ok, drink your coffee up and go for a walk. 

It’s time to test drive 40 milligrams. 

Glad I’ve survived today. 

Got another month to survive living with the Africans. 

They really worked me up yesterday. 

Neither he nor Faith wanted to clean up the crumbs I swept up from there. 

I had already thrown out their rubbish and even put a new bag inside the bin.  

They are both using black magic against me. 

I’m their white bitch. 

And they fucking know it. 

Reminds me of that abo on the other side of town. 

I was his slave too. 

It seems popular for blacks to use white people as their slaves. 

Something’s got to give, soon.  

Still, they are more tolerable than the Nepalese dog. 

I’ll figure out a way how to fuck over Congo Bongo. 

Trust me I will. 

He’s not trying. 

‘I help you,’ I said. 

‘You good man, you very good man.’  

I told him I threw out the bin. 

‘You good man, you very good man.’  

So you can help me by closing the door gently. 

‘Yes, exactly,’ he said then went back to his room and slammed the door. 

Dumb ass pigmy gorilla, that’s all he fucking is. 

‘You good man, you very good man.’  

See, he’s not listening.  

It was him, not Faith, who is giving Africans a bad name. 

That’s where I got it wrong. 

That’s how good the primitive pygmy is. 

Just cleaned up the fucker’s mess. 

He has a deep voice for a pygmy. 

He’s only 5 feet two. 

But I didn’t see him. 

Only heard him. 

However I needed to clean up my mess. 

So I was being gracious about it. 

Faith is always nice. 

He knows he’s done something wrong. 

I’ve apologized many times to keep the peace. 

He never has. 

He started the shit. 

He’s a manipulating little bastard. 

He’ll never contribute anything towards Australia. 

He’ll only take. 

Walked twenty kilometres. 

It was a hard walk. 

Rain, strong winds, not enough water, nearly being run over by loons doing road burns. 

It’s fucking dangerous out there. 

I’m spatially aware. 

I fear no one. 

It’s the only way you can get on with your life. 

You can’t let the crackheads dictate when you can exercise. 

In their cars, they are heroes, outside of their cars, they are fat cowards. 

I’m feeling better. 

Why do I hate the dog? 

Because he wins, every fucking time. 

No one likes losing to a primitive. 

Do they? 

Black Sambo, that’s his new nickname. 

Hay, he’ll slam the door before the night is out. 

He’s asserting his territory. 

He thinks he’s still in the Congo. 

He has won the lottery. 

I just don’t trust an ignoramus; they are more dangerous than the clever. 

They can come to any conclusion and believe it. 

He really believed I flooded the kitchen floor. 

‘You are a bad man.’  

A bullet in the head and put him out of his misery? 

Why not. 

He just couldn’t see that the kitchen sink was leaking. 

‘I’ll tell Madam.’  

Nothing to tell. 

Except that you don’t want to mop up the water. 

Yes, he won. 

I mopped the floor. 

Africans love eating and cooking their food. 

They’ll put all their energy into it and also wash up their dishes which they'll store in their rooms. 

But they’ll leave a mess in the kitchen. 

I was sweeping and mopping up. 

Many times. 

The primitive was cutting vegetables. 

All over the floor. 

Little bits of green leaf.  

I clean it up. 

I throw his rubbish out. 

If I could fuck that primitive over, I would.  

I had to mop the corridor.  

His end of the corridor stinks. 

I mopped it twice. 

Stains on the floor from when he swept out his junk, down the corridor and into the kitchen where the bin is. 

I emptied the bin. 

He’s a fucking cunt and I’m going to stich him up. 

I hate the fucker. 

I hate all the foreigners in this country. 

Especially the international students. 

All fucking lazy cunts. 

But really, his room stinks. 

Once a week he sweeps all his shit out of his room he then sweeps it all around the granny flat. 

I know I’m repeating myself. 

It’s getting to me, isn’t it? 

He’s a smart guy. 

‘What is your mission?’ 

Oh good English Black Sambo, where did you learn that? 

Faith doesn’t clean anymore. 

If she can get away with it, she will. 

Alas, I do all the cleaning.  

The fucking lazy cunts. 

Then I tell people and I’m a racist.  

I don’t tell brown people about the Africans because they jump to the conclusion that I’m a racist. 

Okay for them to be racists, but when the whites are racists, we are really racists. 

I know it doesn’t even make sense to me. 

Such a slippery term they use to their advantage. 

They have every angle covered. 

We are fucked. 

Being white comes with a price. 

PC is a dangerous game. 

Soon Australia will be another Africa. 

They breed like rabbits. 

Australia is fucked.  

I’ve not only wasted time cleaning up after the fucker, but I’ve wasted time writing about him. 

He doesn’t care. 

‘Yes, I do, I’ve given you a book to write about.’ 

You certainly have Duromine. 

He can’t see what he’s doing wrong. 

 

And if he does, he doesn’t care. 

The guy never throws out rubbish. 

That Vietnamese cunt blamed us, not Congo Bongo, for not throwing out rubbish. 

Congo Bongo was that good at not throwing out the rubbish he even fooled the Vietnamese cunt. 

He only copied the Sri Lankan, and the Nepalese followed the Congolese. And the Kenyan will now not throw out the rubbish. 

Can you see a threat here? All foreigners, darkies and fucking lazy arrogant fuckers. 

Can I throw the rubbish outside his room and call Trang? 

Set him up? 

Problem is it won’t stick. 

He has holy powers. 

He’s a witch. 

Nothing sticks. 

‘I will die if I move back to that room.’  

Bongo is talking about his old room where he now pays for his mistress to stay. 

Trang asked him ten times to move back. 

‘Ok.’  

He never moved. 

He had no intention. 

He knows if he plays dumb Trang will eventually back down. 

Trang is the owner. 

I hope she inspects his room. 

Things are rotting his end of the house. 

It fucking stinks. 

Glad I moved rooms. 

I’m far enough not to hear him. 

I’m far enough not to smell him. 

But he’ll bang his door to remind me who is the King.  

I want to tell the world how filthy the Africans are. 

But I’ll only be called a racist. 

They are meat eaters. 

See, I’m being racist again. 

They live off meat. 

They’d eat human meat if they could. 

If there’s no animal meat, they eat each other. 

I’m still losing weight. 

I had noodles, corn and greens. 

It was a healthy meal. 

Only one packet of noodles. 

It was balanced. 

I’m doing well. 

If I don’t bitch here, I’ll lose it in the real world. 

I’ll punch him. 

He’ll stab me.  

‘I’m not scared of you.’  

He isn’t. 

‘You don’t know who I am.’ 

I don’t. 

‘Ask people out on the street who I am.’  

All I was asking him was to close the door quietly. 

But instead he wanted to tell me that he killed people back in Africa and sold drugs on the streets Australia. 

I already knew that.  

The perfect refugee.  

He’ll fuck himself over one day. 

He doesn’t need help from me. 

It’s great not seeing him all day. 

I only hear him.  

If he had a piss bucket, I’d never hear him slam the door. 

He likes slamming the door. 

He wants me to leave. 

He wants the place to himself and his primitive girlfriend. 

That much is obvious. 

But it isn't going to work. 

Moving into this room was the best thing I’ve ever done. 

I’m staying here. 

It’s a better room too, and closer to the WIFI router. 

I don’t hear the primitive snoring. 

I hardly hear his music. 

I am free here. 

Let him rot in hell. 

I’m long over the guy. 

‘It was better when the Vietnamese was here.’ 

He was a real fucking cunt.  

I hated him. 

I didn’t really hate Congo Bongo. 

What I hate about him is his stupidity. 

You never throw out the rubbish, do you Bongo? 

He was caught out. 

He didn’t deny it either. 

He just didn’t care. 

It’s not his job. 

That’s all. 

He’s a dirty cunt who pays his rent. 

So if anyone tells him to clean up, he’ll just disappear into his room. 

He’s not right. 

Something’s not right. 

 

In the, pre-Faith days, he’d to stay quietly in his room for days. 

He wouldn’t even come out for a piss. 

He must have had a piss bucket. 

But now that Faith is here, another primitive, he’s making himself felt all over the place. 

I’m disturbed. 

But tomorrow is another day. 

I like Faith. 

She loves the new me. 

She’s really encouraging. 

She doesn’t say much. 

I think Black Sambo told her not to talk to me. 

I know that not all Africans are like them. 

I’ve only met the bad ones, that’s all. 

Maybe I’ll meet a nice one soon. 

The one that wanted to fuck me, she was nice. 

Why I knocked her back, I have no idea. 

At least I’m writing again. 

I was in a slump the last few days. 

The power of Duromine is wearing off. 

I had a few shazam moments tonight. 

Walking is slow and time-consuming. 

But boy it burns fat.  

That’s why I do it. 

I’ve got a long way to go. 

I’m ready for the challenge. 

I’m not giving up. 

I’ll do it. 

I am doing it. 

Wolf Mask did it and so will I. 

He believes in me. 

He knows I do what he says. 

I’m trying. 

And trying hard. 

That’s half the battle in the weight loss game. 

The little throbbing pain in the sinus has totally gone. 

Not even with the help of antibiotics. 

I’m very impressed. 

Right tooth on Tuesday. 

Hope that clears up the swelling of the gum. 

A very good chance it will. 

I want to believe Congo Bongo is a good guy. 

Not only to blacks. 

I’m learning to live with him. 

Maybe I’m letting something get to me. 

No you aren’t. 

He is slamming the door. 

Why do you worry about the pygmy door slammer? 

Because it’s fucking annoying. 

Right. 

I get you. 

You are a troubled soldier on the mend. 

Once you get to 103 kilos, you know you are really well and truly on your way.  

Believe in the power of 40 mgs. 

It worked for many in the forum. 

They weren’t getting great results on the 30 mg. 

So let's see if I can do better this month. 

Watch what you eat. 

That’s a big deal. 

The rest will fall into place. 

If you are lucky. 

I’ve not officially lost ten kilos. 

It should be more obvious in the next few days. 

Abs. 

Don’t forget them. 

Tighten up the stomach. 

Don’t let it let you down again.  

This time you really care. 

I really do care.  

My legs are looking fantastic. 

Tripped tonight on a walk. 

Left knee of course. 

It hurt. 

I didn’t fall. 

Nearly did. 

It was very close. 

Glad I corrected myself. 

My body was falling forward, onto the ground. 

Not on my fucking shift. 

Danger is every-fucking-where.  

I got lost in nowhere land today. 

It’s happened before off the Duromine. 

Sleep. 

That was the cure. 

Disorientation. 

Like my brain was erased. 

Nothing made sense. 

Coming back from my walk tonight, saw Rosa pottering around the house in her power walk pose. 

Who would have figured that she’s carrying everything she carried out in the morning? 

And in the morning, she carries out everything she carried back to her room in the evening. 

It really is the Twilight Zone. 

She’s a real trier. 

It’s not easy for her. 

Walking is hard work. 

Ageing hasn’t been kind to her. 

But she’s holding her own. 

A wonderful and brave lady. 

Day two on 40 mg. 

Woke up around ten. 

I slept in. 

Caught Wolf Mask on a live stream. 

Coffee slowly kicks in. 

 

Need a shit. 

Need to drink more water. 

Wolf Mask ran15 km yesterday in 45 minutes. 

That’s a fast pace. 

I’m hoping the Duromine is a bit gentler with me today. 

Cleaned around the bin area. 

It was messy. 

I only cleaned it last night. 

Found a new minimal tech track to listen to. 

It’s raining again!  

My Kmart scale is saying I’m 108-7. 

It must be fucking with me. 

Spent a lot of the day cleaning up after that Fucker, Mr. King Much. 

His Royal Highness. 

Another fucking dead weight that’s washed up on our fatal shores legally. 

Nearly seven hours later I walked 35 kilometres. 

If I measured it on Google Maps, I’m sure it would be closer to 40 kilometres. 

And Google Maps fall short because they don’t incorporate extra distance from gradients. 

Been a fantastic day. 

I can feel the weight dripping off me. 

It’s because I’m doing the hard work. 

What an amazing diet. 

Duromine, what other surprises do you have? 

Need to drink more water.  

Slow start, about two litres so far. 

Been pissing yellow stuff. 

Think it’s the vitamin tablets. 

Strange, I thought it was supposed to stay in my system and help me. 

Hadn’t planned to walk a marathon. 

It just happened. 

I left at 3.30 in the afternoon and arrived home at about 10.30. 

I don’t think I stopped or sat down the whole time I was walking. 

I battled cars, I battled rain and strong winds. 

Most importantly, I conquered myself. 

Day three on 40 mg. 

Great shit. 

No pain. 

Woke up, podcasted with Wolf Mask then went back to sleep. 

Then he got me back on at midday. 

I’m getting ready to see the dentist. 

The days are floating by. 

Feeling lighter.  

But can’t be sure. 

Scales lie. 

That 35 kilometre walk nearly killed me. 

It dragged on and on. 

Something wasn’t right. 

Massaged the shin last night, ice-packed it and today it’s come good. 

I’m very pleased with that. 

His Majesty must stay out of my dialogue. 

Feet feeling sensitive. 

But I bounced back ok. 

Had two root canals yesterday. 

Puss came out. 

I like puss …. when it comes out. 

The more that comes out the better. 

He also lanced the large abscess brewing under the right canine. 

How fucked up are my teeth? 

Felt much better. 

Gum was not swollen for the first time. 

Walked a slow 20 km. 

It’s getting harder. 

I was still tired from the walk before. 

Must walk every day like my life depends on it. 

Swear to god I saw Julia Bishop jogging last night. 

Salad and quiche worked like a charm. 

Could be the diet change needed. 

Seeing a dentist on Friday. 

Dr. Mike is brilliant. 

He was so funny with the nurse, Harn. 

‘Her husband likes extra cautioning.’  

He says any pus drained is good for clearing up infections. 

Try not to write about them. 

They even make you look stupid writing about them. 

You repeat yourself. 

You are so angry. 

You can’t think straight. 

People will usually get away with as much as they can and when they can. 

Wolf Mask is being a dick on his podcast. 

I don’t want to be on it. 

He’s become delusional. 

There’s no reason why I should be on it. 

It will only get me in trouble. 

Besides, he’s better by himself. 

Day six on 40 mg. 

Becoming very attached to it. 

Slept only three hours last night. 

Woke up early. 

Couldn’t get back to sleep. 

You don’t need sleep, dummy, you are on legal speed. 

Popped it around 4 am. 

Nearing 8 am. 

Drinking coffee to kick-start a Duromine day. 

Dentist and physio today. 

A busy day. 

Walked 30 kilometres yesterday. 

Sure I’m getting sick of walking. 

But I love it at the same time. 

It’s why I’m losing weight.  

Who walks 30 kilometres a day? 

Took me almost six hours. 

Hay, I've got time on my hands.  

Abscess on gum gone.  

Dr. Mike is a genius.  

He’ll cap the left canine today.  

I just hope all infection is gone and bone has repaired itself. 

Got X Ray ready for him. 

Let's see where that tooth with half the root canal is. 

That’s another thousand dollars!  

I’m getting the Medibank price.  

Thanks Mike.  

I’m optimistic. 

Breakthroughs are on the way. 

Maurice Blackburn is methodically plodding along.  

Tim Jardine is still fighting the good fight. 

And screwing me over.  

So is my Ex-employer, but I won’t know that until much later. 

He must be worried. 

Even just a little bit. 

Spoke some dribble over the phone. 

It always pays to practice the phone voice.  

I weighed in. 

About 106.  

Minus four, could be 103 or 104. 

I’m tired of dieting but never tired of talking about it.  

I am the Spiritual Walker.  

I have learned from the best.  

It’s not that hard, once you figure out how to achieve 200 km a week. 

Five weeks later you have walked 1000 km.  

Calling Medibank now. 

Still got the gift of the gab, just.  

Three shits, the third was explosive, nearly blew my ass off. 

But no blood. 

More constipation on 40 mg. 

Keep an eye on that. 

I’m off to the dentist.  

I’m feeling better.  

Not so sleepy. 

Coffee is helping. 

I’m so relieved to be getting my mouth issues sorted out. 

It’s been painful and life damaging.  

Ate crumpets with honey. 

No flare-ups. 

A sign that left canine tooth is healing up. 

The gum on right canine tooth clearing up. 

I can’t even feel that little indentation above the swelling abscess. 

It just disappeared, overnight. 

That indentation was the tell-tale sign that things weren’t great. 

The gum is completely clearing up.  

Ok, shower up.  

And get your skates on. 

You stomach is looking much flatter. 

Don’t get too excited, but you are well and truly on your way. 

Nothing exceeds like excess right? 

It couldn’t be done any other way. 

Tooth filled in. 

Canal probed.  

Now, stuffed.  

Let’s pray no more complications.  

A little sensitive, but it would have to be. 

Dr. Mike very pleased with results of the treatment of the abscess. 

It’s a reflection of his great work.  

He said it looked good. 

Smell? 

Not so much apparently. 

One tooth done, another one on the way. 

I’m committed to sorting this out.  

Jordan is a great guy. 

A really good session today.  

Negotiated another rate for next visit. 

Met him halfway. 

He’s very fair.  

It’s all about the patient. 

It’s like having a copy of Grey’s Anatomy around when I'm chatting to him.  

Tooth capped. 

Slight soreness, swelling seems to have gone down. 

Swelling on other side of gums is totally gone. 

Less smell from the mouth, I told Dr. Mike. 

Back to walking today. 

A quiet shit. 

No explosions. 

Anus not on fire. 

Day seven on the forties. 

Man, the days are smooth sailing. 

Need to get down some anecdotal stuff. 

Nice weather today.  

Maybe a good day to have communion with nature. 

Three kangaroos hopping around near the water tower. 

I knew I’d find them. 

Emus? 

You’ll be pushing your luck. 

Taking a day off walking was really invigorating. 

Time to start again.  

Work more on abs. 

Don’t panic, Dr. Kilaji will prescribe you another month of the devil’s seed. 

He has to. 

Hernia going down. 

Knee better. 

Diabetes borderline to non-existent.  

Neck even feeling better. 

It’s in his interest to let me carry on doing what I do well. 

I never abuse prescription drugs. 

Etc. 

He likes to hear that. 

Don’t panic. 

Wondering if he’d prescribe me some more Duromine. 

The receptionist at Highclere clinic wasn’t impressed. 

Might have to cancel that appointment. 

For now. 

It could backfire. 

Play it smart, not stupid. 

The government is paying for your root canals. 

Better look at it that way. 

Money well spent. 

Thanks Covid, you have been a life saver. 

Time for a walk. 

You are here for season and reason. 

Walk went fantastically. 

Once I picked up pace, I didn’t slow down. 

Classical music killed the mood. 

Back to techno. 

Harmony restored. 

Duromine doesn’t like classical music. 

Didn’t see the kangaroos. 

I looked for them everywhere. 

I’ll find them again. 

I hop under the underbrush like them. 

We will meet again. 

Two beautiful Rosales.  

Amazing purple around their heads. 

Walked 20 kilometres. 

Yes, got caught in the rain. 

Yes, always get caught in the rain. 

Weighed in at 105 on the K Mart scale. 

That looks promising. 

Wait, having a coffee. 

Eating prunes and cashews. 

I’m breaking up diet with nuts and dried fruit. 

Need to trick the body that it’s not eating so it can lose weight. 

Arnold Schwarzenegger said you needed to trick the body all the time to get better results. 

Same with Duromine. 

Duromine needs to be challenged.  

Only then will it mysteriously burn fat.  

Covid is targeting the Africans. 

They aren’t very hygienic. 

Covid will get them. 

I won’t tell you how much it pisses me off being their slave. 

Even the women are fucking lazy cunts. 

That’s all I’ve got to say about that. 

I’ll have to clean up after them again. 

I suppose that’s the privilege of living with primitives. 

See, they have got me going again. 

Cleaned under the sink and found something festering and rotting. 

Mopped it up as well. 

Sweep, mop, throw out rubbish, and repeat. 

Haven’t the primitives trained me well? 

Looks like it.  

I’m having a hard-enough time keeping my own area clean. 

And keeping up with the high jinks of Duromine 

Shame on those dark stained primitives. 

And they smell so fucking bad while they’re about it. 

It’s their birthright. 

And no, black isn’t beautiful. 

It’s the devil’s spawn. 

I miss the 18th century when they were whipped good and forced into picking cotton. 

What else could they do? 

Voodoo and praying to their devil gods. 

No, slavery was better for them. 

Kept them busy, and with a purpose in life. 

The prune juice is working its magic. 

Only ate cashews and prunes tonight. 

Tricked the stomach that it was full. 

And the six-dollar bottle of prune juice worked its magic. 

A few days with less eating will help me reach under 100 kilos. 

I’m hopeful I’ll reach it soon. 

Magic going on here. 

I can’t ruin it by eating too much. 

The walk, up and down hills, through the bush, and elsewhere, is really helping too. 

Was totally exhausted after today’s walk. 

Some of it was challenging, reaching good speeds. 

I’m on track, either way. 

Think I’ve found a way to induce diarrhea so as to protect my ripped anus. 

Aren’t I a genius? 

King Muck is paying Faith to be his slave. 

She cooks for him. 

But have you notice how he doesn’t order her to clean. 

Um, yes, so that I have to clean. 

He’s got all his bases covered. 

I’ve noticed how he works. 

He’s paying her to cook for him. 

He thinks she’s doing it because she likes him. 

She’s doing it because she doesn’t want to end up on the street. 

She’s really pissed off she got someone like you taking care of her. 

But she’s flexible. 

She does the bare minimum anyways. 

Left a nice deposit in the toilet. 

Some of it sprayed on the wall. 

Don’t ask me how. 

They’ll smell it and that’s what counts. 

But they won’t clean it. 

There are no chemicals. 

And they don’t throw out bins or clean the toilet. 

Off limits to them. 

Proof that they are dirty cunts. 

Same as the Nepalese dog. 

I’ll buy some bleach soon. 

They never will. 

Not in this lifetime. 

The prunes caused absolute havoc last night. 

Induced diarrhea, prunes, pitted, and prune juice. 

Fucking marvellous. 

I might patent this. 

Split the capsule open and emptied contents into my mouth. 

I’ve crossed over to the dark side.  

Duromine is calling me.  

Fucked if I was going to shit it out.  

Let’s see if Duromine kicks in earlier. 

It should. 

Was a bit grumpy yesterday. 

You get those days. 

Nothing ear plugs can’t sort out. 

I’ve annihilated the toilet. 

This might cause a mutiny with the Africans. 

Interesting times. 

I think I’ve shitted out four kilos since the prune encounter last night. 

We’ve had some good rain.  

Dreamed about Wrinkle Lips. 

He’s still a sworn enemy. 

Snorting one gram of crack at a time. 

That explains why he’s trim and never shuts the fuck up. 

Will see the Indian doctor. 

I’ll get some nicotine supplies. 

And by the way, I need another script of Duromine. 

What have I got to lose? 

It’s just exploring my possibilities. 

I’m not giving up. 

I’m forced to play loud music. 

Can’t even hear my porn. 

The bitch is clapping and clicking. 

She’s in praise the lord mode. 

I loathe hearing her praise the lord for hours on end. 

I find it an invasion of my privacy. 

Whatever drugs she’s on I want some. 

I’m sick of being nice to her. 

It’s all fake. 

I want to tell her to clean up the mess. 

Mop the kitchen. 

Sweep it. 

But it will never happen. 

You never confront an African. 

Number one rule. 

Don’t be nosey. 

They have all bases covered. 

Congo Bongo did a sweep from his room. 

The bin is full. 

I didn’t let it get to me. 

That would be losing the battle if I did. 

I’ll continue shitting all over the place. 

I can be a dirty prick too. 

Shitting in the shower last night was divine. 

If only they knew. 

Cleaned toilet. 

Least I could do. 

Last thing I want is the Africans complaining to Trang. 

They are pretty easy going, for the most part. 

Had another shit. 

The K Mart scale is saying 106. 

Minus four would be 102. 

Getting closer to my mark, day by day. 

The capsule is kicking in faster. 

Shaking off the fatigue. 

Dark Monkey is sounding better. 

Had a quick cleaning spree. 

That’s when I know that Duromine is waking up. 

I’ve no idea what I’m doing today. 

A walk perhaps. 

Weights. 

The sky's the limit. 

Borneo explore the whores on motorbikes. 

Broaden your horizon. 

Fuck ourselves on every island of the archipelago. 

They were the kind words I offered to Jodric. 

Whoring isn’t dead, just yet. 

Left canine tooth has settled down. 

So has the swelling. 

Swelling of gums on right side is still down. 

Feeling smooth on the tip of the tongue. 

Soft filling fell out, left filling. 

Nicotine gum to blame. 

But it’s holding out. 

Like last time, only the surface part fell out. 

I think I’m into week six. 

And seven days on the 40 milligrams.  

No, day eight actually. 

Yes, mostly around the gut, chest and love handles. 

That’s where the most initially drips off.  

I told Jodric who seems to always ask the right questions.  

Man, that bitch never shuts up. 

Never. 

She has a mouth and likes to use it. 

When she’s not eating, she’s singing. 

I bet she’d love to use her mouth for sucking cock. 

She’s obviously in denial. 

The fucking freak is at it again. 

Clapping her hands like a seal. 

I should feed the bitch a fish. 

Now you know why I must drain out her madness. 

Religion legitimizes madness. 

Outside of religion, she’d be put in a straight-jacket and heavily medicated.  

Jesus has spawned a legion of loonies. 

I tolerate her. 

I tolerate them. 

What other choice do I have? 

‘Turn the music down.’  

I was out in the kitchen early in the morning preparing for my first day with Mr. Telco. 

It’s on low, I said to Faith. 

This isn’t the first time she’s confronted me in the kitchen about my music. 

But on my first day of work. 

She is my misery.  

She is that fly that zooms around your head, an all-season’s blowfly. 

Warfare. 

I could tell by the glazed look in her eyes. 

How they became mean, evil and demented, just like the devil she is. 

‘I will make your life misery.’  

How, freeloader? 

‘I’ll pray to god, and you’ll see what happens next.’ 

Talk about a motivational speech before starting your new job. 

She got me raising my voice. 

I always lose when I raise my voice.  

It shows the primitives that they have the power to make me speak louder than I should. 

You don’t hit a lady. 

But boy she deserved to be king hit. 

More so, being the devil incarnate. 

Faith has a way of getting her own way. 

She’s not paying rent.  

But boy when she wants to get her own way, she’ll show her true colours. 

She’s got balls. 

Her black face takes on ugly proportions. 

I can’t believe she’s doing this to me. 

But she is. 

She just didn’t give a fuck. 

She came over from Kenya just to make my life hell. 

I’ve spent months, every hour of it, brooding over her. 

Even immigration didn’t act on my tip off. 

I’ve been humbled. 

She’s unreasonable. 

But the music isn’t even loud, I said. 

She was sleeping with Bongo in the back room at the time. 

That raises questions. 

Does a good Christian African girl sleep with someone out of wedlock? A 

Faith does. 

She’s looking out for herself. 

What really went wrong with her. 

Why did she give up the fight? 

Overstay, of course. 

Bongo knows she pisses me off. 

That’s the only reason he has been taking care of her for over a year and a half now. 

Just to piss me off. 

Africans are cute little fuzzballs my ass.  

It’s burning still.  

Prune juice. 

It’s magical.  

Diarrhea - inducing.  

It’s what I’ve been looking for. 

I’ll be happy if it settles down. 

Running to the toilet, or shower, is time-consuming.  

Did the dog just slam the door? 

Had earplugs in for last few hours. 

I just had a two-hour sleep while listening to a motivational talk. 

Every second counts. 

I made sure every second counted in my sleep. 

It made me feel good listening to these successful people talk about their training routine. 

Sure I felt impotent, but the sleep was great. 

I couldn’t hear a thing. 

My earplugs cocooned me against the monkeys in the other rooms.  

Just eating cashews. 

They feed me up and don’t put on much weight. 

Cut out all the unnecessary meals throughout the day and the scale will reward you.  

I should have my own motivational channel on YouTube. 

Not seen much of Rosa. 

Maybe when I stripped down to weigh myself on the scales it freaked her out. 

And fair enough too. 

Every day is a struggle against fat. 

Now or never. 

‘I like people who have gone from ruin to success.’  

I think he meant people who had gone to seed and decided to take control of their life. 

That’s me. 

Maybe I needed a rest today. 

Listening to that Kenyan sing like she didn’t have a worry in the world makes me sick to the core. 

That Nepalese cunt sung out of tune too. 

Same with that Vietnamese cunt. 

What is it about these ass-wipes from Third World Shit Holes singing and disturbing the peace? 

As if singing is okay and everyone therefore must put up with it. 

Selfishness at its worst.  

If only they could sing in tune. 

But they can’t. 

They can’t sing for nuts. 

That Nepalese just made noise all the time. 

Selfish cunt. 

His mouth was working even when he was sleeping. 

Good riddance.  

I’m almost totally alone on this diet. 

We’ll see it through together. 

Tricks, remember, trick the body. 

Shock the body. 

Demand results. 

And don’t let Wrinkle Lips intimidate you. 

Vivid dreams last night. 

A first for many weeks. 

How come if there’s any water on the floor, I have to clean it. 

I just don’t get it. 

‘You did that deliberately.’ 

They must be using magic. 

‘Vengeance will be mine.’  

Faith prayed for three hours once I upset her. 

She was putting a curse on me. 

She didn’t want to do housework. 

Even when Trang asked her to. 

Smart people, these two Africans. 

I better open the kitchen door before she smokes me out with her offal. 

The Duromine files continue. 

Good shit today. 

The fruit helped a lot. 

Had a craving for fruit and raided the fridge. 

Walked 20 km in three and a half hours. 

Nice pace. 

Ask for nicotine aids first. 

Then casually bring in Duromine. 

Dr. Vishal should be sympathetic. 

The pill seems to be kicking in, four hours after I took it about 4.30 am. 

I’m getting good at waking up and taking it. 

It’s as if my life depends on it. 

Weighed in at 107 on the K Mart scale. 

Until it’s clear cut 105 I’ve still got a lot of work to do. 

The Jesus Freak is at it. 

Big time. 

I’ll leave her to it. 

She’s on her own Jesus Trip. 

A lovely doctor from Fiji. 

Lovely people I said. 

How do you know, he asked? 

Attended a Fiji Independence Day about a decade ago. 

The receptionist who booked me in last week totally forgot about my Duromine rant. 

But I had a back-up story. 

Always have a back-up story. 

Then it was over to the nicotine aids. 

‘It’s hot in Fiji like in this room,’ said the doctor, of Indian descent. 

He must have been in his early seventies. 

Once he fuddled around finding the nicotine prescription I asked if I could weigh myself. 

The machine was new, gee whizz and sensitive. 

It wasn’t digital. 

I weighed in at 98 kilograms. 

Couldn’t believe so had him weigh me again. 

He almost got down on his knees to get an accurate reading. 

‘Stay steady,’ he said. 

Yes, it was two digits. 

Now I’m questioning his machine. 

‘It’s new, no questions about it.’ 

An older scale one stood dejected next to the new one. 

‘Can I weigh myself on that one?’ 

No it’s broken, he said. 

Which got me around to losing weight.  

I have a hernia and a bad knee could afford to lose another ten kilograms. 

He was concerned about the nicotine gums conflicting with the Duromine. 

‘I’ll have 40 milligrams please.’ 

He was hesitant. 

‘I’ll prescribe you them.’ 

He then went on to tell me about a sample he found at home. 

‘I couldn’t eat breakfast, was cleaning around the house all day. Then I cleaned the windows and swept the garage.’ 

He said his wife suggested he not take Duromine again. 

I was laughing.  

I was so close to getting my prescription. 

I’m thinking like a drug fiend. 

‘Do you suffer from depression?’ 

Of course not. 

Have you taken it before? 

Something else, similar. 

Never told him I used to take the whole packet on a bender at the go-go bars of Bangkok. 

Least he knew the better. 

Did he know I hoodwinked him? 

Of course. 

‘Would you like be charged for two consultations,’ said the receptionist.  

I had apparently gone over the ten-minute limit. 

Everyone was creaming it today and I said I’d be back on the tenth. 

I got my prescription at the chemist next door. 

The Indian owner told me that the doctor didn’t write the correct script. 

‘You are entitled to a repeat and a concession.’ 

So the doctor has a direct line to God, I said. 

“No, no,’ said the chemist bashfully. 

I knew he was struggling to write the script, I said. 

‘He needs an IT guy working with him.’  

So he has a direct line to god, I repeated as I paid for my precious. 

I’m good for another month. 

I wasn’t sure my doctor would have written a repeat. 

I’m shopping around. 

There’s big money in bulk billing, and if other doctors appreciate my money, then the better the chance of getting more Duromine. 

I put that bitch in her place at Big W. 

She didn’t see it coming. 

No one does. 

The power of a phone call. 

Make it convincing.  

And watch her squirm. 

Walked 23 kilometres today. 

Really felt tired.  

No Olympic effort like last night’s 20-kilometre walk done in 3 hours and 27 minutes. 

My hatred for both Faith and Bongo has gone up equally. 

I knocked on his door and told him about my new headphones. 

‘I’ll be out later.’ 

Doesn’t he know he’s a low life primitive who should show respect to elders, white elders. 

Faith is just a bitch. 

I can see it on her pinched face. 

It looks like a dried-up prune. 

The Primitive was cooking meat in his room tonight. 

One day he’ll get caught. 

And he’ll say to Trang, I won’t do it again. 

Which means he’ll do it again. 

They are a fucked-up couple. 

Bongo is living in marital bliss. 

He’s struck gold. 

The fake refugee. 

If you are in a pickle, don’t expect Faith to clear things up. 

She prefers to let things lie. 

Even if the Primitive is calling me a bad man. 

I’d explained to the whore that the water was already on the floor. 

She won’t intervene.  

She’s a freeloader. 

Never fuck with a free meal ticket. 

I’m pretty close to telling her to fuck off. 

Or make a snide remark about her voodoo. 

But it will only bring me grief. 

Give a fake smile and spit at her behind her back. 

As to Congo Bongo, he’s the king here. 

I’m hoping to see his downfall one day. 

He’s a troublemaker. 

I hate Africans after living with these two. 

They are the devil’s children. 

Why we didn’t kill them off in the Crusades. 

Why we didn’t kill them off. 

Blacks have been killing blacks since they roamed this earth. 

But when we do it, we are tyrants. 

When they do it, they are warlords. 

Wonderful soft shit. 

Two laxatives and prunes. 

And lots and lots of water. 

This could be a game- changer. 

Drink more water.  

And enjoy Duromine even more. 

Day nine on 40 mgs. 

Drink more water. 

The shit was a little bit watery and just sailed through my anus. 

No pain. 

More water. 

Moisturize the bowels. 

Impregnate the body with life sustaining water. 

It goes well with any chemical. 

Drinking more water this morning. 

Got a call from my chemist. 

The nicotine script is ready for me. 

 

He is God. 

    ‘I can get repeats for you.’  

    Even I’m impressed.  

Never thought I’d have such a close relationship with my chemist.               They are my lifeline. 

    They want me to get better. 

    They want me to feel better. 

Fuck doctors. 

Chemists are where it’s at. 

My grandfather Vincent Gemalla was a chemist.            

I’ve always had a close relationship with them. 

     They have saved my life.  

They are saving my life.  

Just talked the ear off Natalie from Medibank. 

Shared some good ideas. 

Felt I better get off the line. 

You don’t want to cross that line. 

Though she was up for it. 

Women are lonely. 

And they love talking. 

Walked 27 kilometres. 

Run up a sandy track.  

It ran diagonal to the nature reserve. 

It could have been a kilometre, a slight gradient. 

I love Koondoola Park. 

It’s a nature park. 

So much prettier than seeing houses. 

Houses and more of them. 

Concrete. 

Bitumen. 

Nature. 

It’s just that. 

A place for communion.  

Even the birds love it. 

Officially complained to Big W yesterday. 

Took an hour to write up the report. 

I was walking in the nature park. 

My mind was sharp. 

Nature had calmed me. 

I was thinking supernaturally. 

Do I trust the scale of the Fiji Doctor? 

I must. 

Why would it lie? 

Is your K Mart scale above the rest in terms of reliability? 

Gosh it’s great to have milk in my coffee. 

I was asked to open my bag three times for inspection. 

Three times they found nothing stolen 

I’m hoping for an official apology and a voucher. 

I even told them about their scanner alarm that went off with people entering. 

It went off as I left. 

They didn’t find any labels. 

Big W has some problems. 

And I was smart enough to find it for them. 

They owe me more than apology. 

They owe a job. 

Let’s see what they say. 

It can take up to 72 hours before we contact you, said Mary 

who sounded Irish? 

I love making complaints, especially when I’m walking. 

Feels like it’s entertainment. 

Helps kill the time. 

Popped Duromine about 5 am. 

The Indian chemist, is he from Fiji too? 

He said it’s usual to be on Duromine for up to five months. 

‘Until your body gets used to your new weight.’ 

‘Until you lose your stomach,’ he added. 

I’m very impressed. 

I knew it wasn’t a matter of taking it for six weeks. 

I could be on this shit up till Christmas.  

Musar called me, saying the nicotine was ready to pick up. 

Put on my new bond shirt, size X, which means large. 

I put jell in my hair. 

I had trimmed it last night. 

And wore my black cargo pants. 

Boy I looked good. 

The birds at Koondoola Nature Reserve were going to love the way I dressed up for them. 

I actually felt and looked slimmer. 

Even Nina noticed it when I paid my rent last night. 

Well I hope she did. 

Niaz wasn’t sure if I had lost weight. 

He thinks I’m just starting Duromine. 

Better he thinks that. 

It won’t take him long to figure out I’ve been on it almost six weeks. 

I’m a good customer. 

He doesn’t care. 

He gave me great diet advice too.  

I do miss the Nepalese dog. 

Never thought I’d say it. 

He was my training buddy. 

I hope he’s doing well.  

I drank about six litres of water yesterday. 

I was pissing all over the place. 

I’m hoping all the walking is paying off. 

My feet are really feeling it. 

I need to hit the weights today. 

I’m seeing muscles I’ve not seen for decades. 

A great shit. 

A bit sloppy. 

No blood today. 

Feeling light. 

But not feeling two digits light. 

May have to hit the chemist and double check. 

It’s official. 

On Danial’s scale, I’m 104. 

‘That’s two kilograms a week, great work,’ he said. 

So the new doctor’s clinic’s scale is out by about eight kilograms. 

Another mystery solved. 

I had every reason to doubt those scales. 

Niaz, that’s his name. 

Faith was shocked. 

‘Wow, you’ve lost weight, l can’t see your big stomach anymore.’ 

I was wearing my new bonds t-shirt. 

It’s official. 

Even she can see it. 

Faith isn’t into giving fake praise. 

I’m ten kilograms lighter. 

I’m at 104. 

I just had another shit. 

I’d say I’m closer to 103. 

Now I have a realistic idea where I’m at. 

From 114 to 103, that’s quite an achievement. 

She’s at it again. 

Singing. 

This could go on for hours. 

I have ear plugs. 

I have a headset. 

I have options of filtering her out. 

She has no shame about her noise pollution. 

But she did give me nice feedback about my weight loss. 

So I’m going to cut her some slack. 

I’m feeling a bit tired. 

Nearly got a boner watching that lady cross the street. 

She was wearing tight sports trousers. 

Lycra. 

She dropped a coffee cup. 

I didn’t care. 

I was just looking at those long legs and tight ass. 

The ear plugs are sealed. 

Can’t hear a soul. 

Another two hours, sleep.  

I’m tired. 

Walked 26 kilometres yesterday. 

Ran up that sandy track to the top. 

It was brilliant and lots of walking in soft sand. 

I’m getting fit. 

Muscle weighs more than fat, I told Daniel. 

Looks like you are bulking up, he says. 

Ten kilos are ten kilos. 

I’m getting closer to two digits. 

Only three kilos to go. 

You have to work hard to lose weight. 

There are no easy options.  

Two hours sleep. 

And a wank. 

I feel better. 

Cleaning room, washing socks and underwear. 

Must be feeling better. 

If I can have lost 15 kilos by the end of the month, I’ll be very happy. 

I only have four or five more kilos to go. 

Had another shit. 

I’m lighter. 

Need to buy more greens. 

Ate chicken last night. 

Was protein deficient. 

Faith says I’ve lost my stomach. 

It was that obvious. 

We are ships in the night. 

I’ve got enough 40 mg tablets to last me another month, after this script is used. 

I’m on day nine of 40 mg. 

I’ll drink more water. 

One litre at a time. 

As if I’m not drinking. 

That’s the secret. 

It will clear up my skin. 

Rehydrate my joints. 

Imagine if I get on disability pension. 

It will be a nice little back pay. 

Enough to pay for seven of my top teeth plus the root canal treatment. 

No swell-ups. 

Duromine has been a bonus. 

It’s made me pay for things I normally wouldn’t. 

That abscess on my gum has totally gone. 

I see Dr. Mike on 1st September, first day of Spring. 

I need to walk 20 kilometres tonight but on Duromine speed. 

That run through Koondoola Park, up the sandy bush  

track gave me confidence that my fitness levels are up. 

Getting out of bed is easier. 

Ten kilograms easier. 

Imagine 15. 

Or even 20. 

It takes time and hard work. 

Learn the right habits. 

Eating crumpets was a little indulgence you needed. 

A reward. 

It’s not like you are eating sultana toast every day. 

‘You should eat lamb chops,’ said the Fiji Doctor,  

maybe two. Just don’t eat the potatoes.’ 

I think we are going to get on just fine Doc. 

You have proved your worth. 

And the Indian chemist even showed you how to write a repeat script with 

concession rates for the nicotine product. 

We are both learning together.  

But your scale is out of whack. 

It tricked me. 

It keeps me on the ball. 

It’s tricking all the way.  

Until you have reached your goal. 

One root canal almost out the way and paid for. 

Three more treatments on the other tooth. 

You are doing very well. 

You are the chemist god; I should have said. 

So you have left me. 

No Daniel, not yet. 

He’s partners with the Indian at the other chemist in Highclere. 

He always seems happy to see me. 

He says after about week six weight loss isn’t so rapid. 

I need to pull out more tricks. 

I’m sure I have a few. 

Dr. Mike said he was closed for 44 days at the beginning of the Covid outbreak. 

He always extends his hand. 

‘Are you sure?’ 

Yes, he is then I shake it. 

It’s those same hands that are making me better. 

Nicotine overdose. 

It does happen. 

So I listened to more tunes and slept a bit. 

It’s a hard life I have. 

Only in Australia can you indulge in Duromine and weight loss. 

Love in the time of coronavirus. 

It’s just been a godsend.  

More money, more scripts and more of everything.  

Even had my chemist call up to say my nicotine script is ready. 

It really doesn’t get much better than that folks. 

Am I lacking motivation? 

I needed to rest my anus. 

It was on fire. 

More vegetables. 

Fuck salads. 

Not the right kind of soft fibre. 

Maybe it’s time for prune juice soon. 

At least once a week to flush the intestines out.  

I miss Sister Victoire. 

We used to go through clothes in the cupboard to pick out clothes for my vacation with the Riley’s.  

Yes, I lived in a past life. 

And it was in this lifetime. 

I’m going to get money from the State. 

I’m sure you’ll agree Sister Victoire. 

You loved me. 

I was your little pet. 

I won many hearts over in my youth. 

Boy I must have been cute. 

Might need to write about my other lifetime in preparation for the interview in October. 

I need to sound convincing. 

On Duromine, I’m hoping the details are sharp, like my Big W complaint. 

I saw everything in miniscule detail. 

The power of observation on Duromine is exceptional. 

It’s time to channel that. 

And get dressed and pay a friendly visit to my chemist. 

I’ve got two now. 

I’ll book an appointment with Dr. Kilaji soon. 

Need to get this compensation claim settled. 

I’m not earning 44 dollars every ten minutes. 

Have mercy on me and send my lawyer the paperwork. 

Doctors are making a million out of Medicare. 

While I’m waiting for the doctor to get off his ass and send a medical report to my lawyer. 

We keep on changing the arbitration meeting. 

At this rate, I’ll have to go into Work Safe WA in person. 

Not advisable. 

Be patient, said my lawyer. 

But I know how my doctor works.  

Overworked or not, he’s being paid good money.  

So best he acts in my best interest and email Tim Jardine a report. 

Playing, Isn’t She Lovely? 

Had two wanks.  

I’m back on track. 

Still plenty of time to punish and trick the body. 

You can do it. 

You are doing it. 

Joined a Fitness Club. 

Time to take this show to another level. 

Wouldn’t consider it in my wildest dreams, off Duromine. 

On it, it was a no brainer. 

Great shit. 

Hurt. 

Didn’t drink enough water. 

Walked 15 kilometres yesterday. 

Was really buzzing. 

Walking fast. 

Walking hard. 

Twice the pace of my normal walks. 

Felt it was better for me than the slow 20 km walks. 

This fell into the realms of cardio. 

The fibre worked wonders. 

Must have shitted out a kilo. 

Weighing in at 106 on K Mart scale. 

That’s rather impressive. 

Shitting in the shower is rewarding. 

Warm up the anus with hot water and relax the sphincter and shit to your heart's content. 

This weight loss is a science. 

Mix up the walks. 

Walking through sand does wonders. 

I’m getting nimble. 

I’m getting fast. 

I can feel fitness. 

I can smell it. 

Met Joan, a South African, immigrated to Australia in 1983. 

She was pulling out weeds at a Nature Reserve. 

‘Did you see the Donkey Devil Orchard?’ 

I have now. 

‘And the Kangaroo Paw.’ 

Yes, see that too. 

‘Some come in purple, dark red and even black.’  

I did a few more laps and she was still picking up rubbish and pulling out weeds. 

She just couldn’t leave the place. 

She’s a nature lover. 

So am I. 

It was great to see. 

That I’m not the only one who has fallen in love the Australian bush. 

Gym work-out went well. 

Five hours later, well. 

Cooked up roasted vegetables with rice. 

Didn’t eat much. 

Saw my doctor and made an appointment for tomorrow. 

Tim Jardine called up for the medical report, said the receptionist. 

Dr Kilaji said I lost weight, especially around the face. 

Thanks very much for your help. 

He was bashful and wanted me to stop. 

He looked very busy and stressed.  

Tim wants the report before next Monday. 

Bought two pairs of track suit pants. 

45 dollars each. 

But real classy track suit pants. 

An hour on the bike. 

An hour on the Nordic ski machine. 

And an hour on the treadmill. 

It breaks up the walking.  

Plus two hours of working-out with weights.  

I’ll ask my doctor for more Duromine.  

Why not. 

Stock up on this miracle drug. 

Drank six litres of water. 

Weighed in at 104 on the gym scale. 

Take off the weight of socks, knee brace and pants and shirt, I’m down to 103.5. 

This is the official scale.  

It’s a commercial one.  

No nonsense. 

It just tells you the god honest truth about how much you weigh. 

Duromine 40 mg is settling down. 

It’s working its magic. 

Ass hurt for an hour or so in the gym. 

Make that two hours. 

More water.  

More fibre. 

But we are surviving.  

Managing. 

No pain no gain.  

I need to hit the gym like it’s my new pet project. 

Tighten up the flab. 

Now’s the time. 

Six weeks into Duromine, it’s time to start mopping up the ravages of time.  

The heater is fucking hot.  

I’ll turn it off. 

I’m dog tired. 

More so than usual.  

You won’t lose that stomach being a lazy bone. 

Embrace the gym. 

Start feeling good.  

Confidence level going up as weight goes down.  

The shame of being fat will leave soon.  

I’m hopeful to reach two digits on the gym scale within two weeks.  

That’s the aim. 

Weight dropping off more slowly.  

So I need to work at it harder.  

Niaz. 

He’s my chemist. 

God.  

Got talking about Cialis and Viagra. 

‘Cialis use to be $200 a packet. It’s now $40.’  

That’s next on my list. 

He says there are no limits on Duromine, unlike the quit smoking pills which is three months.  

That’s promising.  

He gave me two nicotine sprays for free.  

I was touched.  

It was after I bitched about my doctor not doing the medical report for my compensation lawyer.  

‘Just follow it up, he has to do it.’  

Which I did today.  

Always ask people for advice.  

It’s usually good.  

I’m sick of the professionals.  

But I need them.  

I’m becoming a professional myself.  

Big W. 

Watch out.  

’m onto it.  

At least Anytime Fitness sell real track suit pants.  

You pay for what you get.  

The tracksuits I bought from Big W are crap. 

Stay focused.  

Let them feel the heat. 

They aren’t used to consumers sticking up for themselves, is my opinion.  

I love toying with them.  

It just gets better and better every time they call me. 

Too late. 

Time for appeasement is over.  

It’s war.  

Besides, it keeps me sharp.  

It’s just a game for me.  

Half part indignation, half fun.  

I’ve been fucked over by corporate Australia.  

Lost my livelihood because of complaints.  

To reciprocate is the least I can do. 

Another two hours on the phone to Big C. 

Those Kiwi girls have been fabulous. 

It’s not looking good for Abdul, the warehouse manager. 

It really isn’t.  

I had to correct the report until it said what I wanted it to say. 

There had to be a balance. 

Called up the supervisor and thanked her for the great work on their end. 

Strange, considering I’m calling up the complaint line, you may ask. 

I like to cover all bases. 

‘The report has been sent,’ she said. 

What, you mean the second one? 

‘Yep, and I’m told someone on the floor has read it.’  

After me outlining the case she looked over the reports and said it was a serious case. 

‘A serious case?’  

‘Of course,’ she said. 

I needed that confirmation.  

The intrigue on the Perth end was making me start to doubt that. 

But escalation has taken place. 

As I said, it’s not looking good for you Abdul. 

He doesn’t come out looking pretty, at all. 

My intention.  

I have a photographic memory, and Mary, the lady writing up my case, is very patient and a great conspirator against Big C. 

If only the company knew. 

I’m sure they do.  

My friend said take the voucher. 

No, I sense something bigger going on here. 

And it’s been documented and sent to HQ. 

Harassment and intimidation.  

Not only searched three times but now this. 

It’s really not looking pretty. 

Got a call from Chan, Big W.  

He’s offering 50 dollars now. 

Told him he shouldn’t call. 

He wasn’t informed about it. 

Said after talking to Abdul, I’ve escalated the complaint.  

‘You only get two lines,’ I said, adding, ‘Abdul fills up two pages.’ 

Appreciated the call and gesture, I said, but best we wait for investigation. 

Chan seems reasonable.  

Abdul seems like a mean-spirited Muslim who would prefer bombing Christian churches than working as a floor manager.  

The fucking dirty primitives.  

I’m glad Faith is fucking over Congo Bongo.  

The stupid prick deserves it. 

End of their story. 

I need to relax. 

I don’t want these Africans getting to me. 

Bongo says he is leaving. 

Which means he isn’t. 

Is he stupid or just stupid? 

I suspect he’s a genius. 

Day fifteen on Duromine 40 mg. 

Trying to wake up randomly early.  

Play catch up later. 

I’m really fine with it. 

Cialis worked like a charm. 

Kept from going to the toilet all night. 

The piss bucket was empty in the morning. 

I must have an enlarged prostate. 

Will talk to doctor about this.  

Miss my vaping. 

But it’s too costly to maintain. 

Dr. Kilaji wants me totally off it. 

He says that’s why I’m having problems with my gums and teeth. 

Dr. Mike couldn’t answer either way. 

He’s a smoker.  

I didn’t accept his smoke. 

I was afraid I’d become a fully-fledged smoker again. 

You can tell Dr. Mike is a heavy smoker. 

He just can’t wait after he has seen a customer. 

He needs that cigarette. 

He’ll discreetly disappear and smoke it in his Mercedes Benz. 

A nice car by the way. 

I’ve had about four hours sleep. 

Nice work-out last night. 

Mostly cardio. 

Didn’t want aching muscles get in the way of my progress. 

Surprised myself by running half an hour on the treadmill at seven kilometres an hour. 

My technique was superb. 

Day fifteen on 40 mgs.  

Really powering. 

Should see more weight loss if I put in the hard yards. 

First two months are critical. 

This is a science. 

Weight loss is a science. 

After work-out, got back home around 12.30, ate three mandarins. 

No late-night cravings. 

One meal a day. 

Diet. 

It’s all about diet. 

Reminder take a vitamin pill before you forget. 

‘The yellow you are pissing out is the excess Vitamin B,’ said Andy. 

Another mystery solved. 

No it wasn’t dehydration.  

Good shit. 

A bit tight. 

But no laxatives last night. 

Weighed in at 107 on K Mart scale. 

I’m not disheartened. 

Not anymore. 

Feel a bit stiff but nothing unusual. 

I’m going to tinker around the gym. 

Why not? 

You paid for membership. 

Use it. 

Less time you are on the roads, less chance you have of being run over by cars. 

Day fifteen on 40 mg. 

Less manic. 

Wonderful work-out last night. 

Heart beat up to160 on the treadmill. 

Five visits to gym already. 

Breaking up the long and slow walks. 

Work smarter, not harder. 

Creating tunes for Jodric. 

Tapping into my creative side. 

He’s a treat to work with. 

So encouraging 

Took three laxatives last night. 

Trying to drink more water. 

Not got under 100 kilos. 

About 1.5 kilos away. 

Sitting on 103. 

Still great. 

Just waiting for a Duromine surprise. 

Ate two meals last night. 

Just rice and veggies and noodles. 

Was really hungry. 

Must be the gym work. 

I fear nothing, not even success. 

Now that you are at the gym, expect more results. 

This is also stimulating the weight loss. 

Joining a gym. 

Duromine is giving me choices. 

‘I would never have done any of this without it,’ I told my doctor. 

I tell everyone I’m on Duromine, I told him. 

‘Why do you tell them?’ he asked, genuinely surprised. 

Because I’m writing a book, I said. 

He seemed very pleased with that.  

Another positive aspect of taking Duromine.  

Great shit. 

Came out smoothly. 

Initially giving birth was hard. 

I squeezed it out. 

Once it came out, it kept on coming out. 

Three laxatives. 

And drink more water. 

Weighed in about 102 after the shit. 

Eating three or four mandarins a day is helping with bowel movements. 

I’m committed to getting to a two-digit figure. 

Need pick up my Work WA compensation form from chemist. 

It’s in safe hands. 

I’m onto week seven now. 

Or is it week six. 

I’m doing very well.  

I need to think about how to maintain it once I’m off the Duromine. 

‘Your job is to make me exercise without me speaking.’  

That’s Sky’s challenge at the gym. 

I will get Sky to go through the first day she trained me doing general training.  

So it reinforces the exercises and covers those muscles again. 

Makes sense. 

See what she thinks. 

Not sure why I’m going into this wholeheartedly. 

It’s all about tricking the body. 

Giving it the fighting chance it’s always needed. 

Weightlifting. 

I forgot the pain. 

I like the pain of weight training. 

It’s forcing muscles that under normal circumstances hardly get a good punishment.  

Great to be back in the fold. 

Ki, you are doing well. 

I like your attitude. 

She seemed keen on my roadie stories. 

I had her mesmerized. 

She had great ab exercises too. 

Planking, I must do more of them. 

Yes, I woke up at 2.30 am and took a Duromine. 

So technically it should be working about now. 

It’s 7.30 and I have appointment at the gym at 8.30. 

These training sessions get me out of house. 

They get me to the gym. 

It’s all part of the motivation that I’m seeking. 

I’ve walked the hard yards.  

But it’s time to up the ante. 

I need results. 

More intensive work will do that. 

Like running on a treadmill for an hour. 

Another record. 

I’ve walked a marathon now and ran one hour non-stop. 

You are going back into the years. 

At 24 you couldn’t do this, could you? 

I’m really fatigued. 

Do I want to take another crap? 

Feels like. 

Let’s give it a run. 

Progress. 

Thanks Mr. Telco, been a pleasure doing business with you. 

Injustices remedied. 

Round two coming.  

That will cost you a lot more. 

You think you got off lightly. 

Worked-out. Did some serious chest and stomach. 

Ki was wonderful, the time she gave me. 

Sky knows what she is doing and is a “real sweetheart.’’ 

I might get 12 grand and 750 dollars. 

Costs being paid by other party. 

Hope that covers my lawyers’ costs. 

Five grands. 

Surely it will. 

Either way, even if you just get ten grand, still a win.  

Okay, it’s time for a sleep. 

Ate noodles with beans. 

Nothing great. 

But food. 

Stomach needs firming up. 

God bless, I can get my hands around the folds of fat now. 

That’s something the scales can’t tell you. 

Whatever happens, I’ll use the money for gym, insurance and health insurance.  

Pay it all up front.  

That was the deal, right. 

A year up front.  

Nothing to worry about. 

We have more options than before. 

I enjoyed the walk. I’ve done about eight kms. so far. 

Not a bad session.  

Might hit bike and treadmill later. 

Saw the manager, she was nice to me. 

I helped her open the door while she carried in a box. 

It’s really a life-changing thing. 

I’m so happy to be doing chest exercises, I told Aneka, who also goes by the name Sky. 

She had been saving it for me. 

She is happy with my commitment. And Ki says I’m doing great after only three days and being off weights for over thirty years. 

Did dead lifts, sitting down, nearly 80 kilograms. 

I’ll get a report soon and find the right name for it. 

I’m pushing muscles to perform. 

Its humbling taking charge of my health. 

Thanks Dr. Kilaji, you have done your very best. 

A few aches. 

To be expected. 

I’m ready for it.  

I won’t stop taking Duromine. 

I’m still weak and need your crutches. 

Prune juice. 

Are you the shape shifter I need? 

Anus on fire last night. 

Today it’s feeling ok. 

Just another romantic night with Duromine and Cialis. 

What a combo, hey! 

Found Miss Lee.  

From Hainan.  

Boy can she massage.  

I had two with her today. 

Julie, her boss, will invoice me tomorrow on Medibank and hand me over some cash. 

I’m loving this place. 

Ran on treadmill for half an hour at speed seven. 

I was on 6.5 two days ago. 

Sweated like a pig and entered the massage place. 

Back in Asia again. 

 

Watch your spending. 

Duromine, you are making a mockery of me. 

Duromine, get back to work. 

Duromine. 

I’m asking too much from you. 

Half an hour on treadmill. 

Knee holding up. 

Dripped in sweat. 

A good start. 

Cialis was still floating around in my system. 

Value added.  

You were right Andy. 

Feel on top of the world. 

It had to be the massage. 

A real find. 

Every moment, Lee was applying herself. 

Nothing was wasted. 

She really used all her energy to find the best outcome. 

I’ll be seeing her today to get my Medibank rebate in cash.  

And booked to get another massage on Saturday morning. 

Julie really knows the system. 

Lee followed me to the ATM but not standing over me. 

‘She was just being responsible.’ 

Totally fine, I said to Julie, I would have done the same.  

If she doesn’t get paid, it comes out of her salary.  

Slept two hours from 5 am to 7 pm last night. 

Good to play catch up. 

Nearly two weeks on 40 mg. 

It’s heavyweight.  

Wondering if reduced walking is affecting weight loss. 

Or if the gym and the weights, and the work there that I’m putting in is burning more calories. 

I suspect the workouts are burning more calories. 

And breaking up the drudgery of walking which was getting me nowhere. 

Not a bad shit. 

Didn’t hurt as much. 

Taken without laxatives. 

Need to buy more prune juice. 

Horses for courses. 

Nice to have a change. 

Feel skinnier. 

Need to really hit the gym hard. 

Weights.  

Been treading lightly.  

Don’t want to get an injury. 

Soon I’ll be powering. 

Just need to be sensible about building myself up. 

I want more muscle mass. 

Apparently, I’ve got 44 per cent of it. 

I’m way above normal.  

Let’s chip away at the fat and build more muscle. 

Body sculpting is a real science. 

Took Duromine at 3.30 am.  

First coffee and the beats are sounding fine. 

I’m optimistic it’s going to be a great weight loss day. 

Need more reflection. 

‘Looks like you got haemorrhoids,’ said Niaz. 

So I bought the cream. 

It’s clearing up.  

He still didn’t want any money for the nicotine spray. 

Got my canine tooth sealed.  

More treatment on the right canine. 

It’s slowly and steadily coming together. 

Do I get new teeth? 

Dr. Mike isn’t pushing it.  

But it’s now a possibility. 

Lose more weight and reward yourself. 

Dreamed that Mr. Telco was tracking me down.  

He will too. 

He’s a guy who doesn’t like being beaten by someone poorer. 

Eleven more 40 mg pills to go. 

Trying to get under a weight of 100. 

It won’t be easy. 

I’m waiting for a Duromine surprise. 

I weighed in at 101.5 last week. 

I put it back on. 

I need to train harder. 

Feeling it. 

Need heavier weights and more often. 

No more pussy footing in the gym. 

Operation target muscle mass. 

Eight days I’ve been to Anytime Fitness. 

I’m really liking Zach the owner. 

He is from Wollongong. 

Sky says he isn’t much of a chatter. 

But I noticed him responding to the cute Asian yesterday. 

Left a big turd in the toilet. 

Hope they don’t pin the dirty toilet bowl on me. 

Big W resolved.  

Feedback given. 

Christian, WA State Manager, you are really a nice guy. 

And the 100-dollar gift voucher was a better figure. 

Anything less would have been an insult.  

I’m sitting on 103-4.  

From 101.5 I’m putting weight on. 

Has the reduced walking been reflected in my weight? 

I’ve got to reduce my spending. 

After September, it’s time to cut down to Spartan. 

I’m maybe expecting too much. 

Duromine tends to work its magic over three days, landing on a Friday. 

I’ve become obsessive with weighing myself. 

I’m working out at home too. 

Gym’s great but is stopping you from doing more abs and bench lifts. 

Nearly six weeks and you are down ten kilograms. 

Maybe I’m expecting more. 

Maybe it’s not working any more. 

Maybe it’s destroying me. 

Piles. 

Haemorrhoids.  

I’ve been in pain. 

The dentist is chewing up my savings.  

Massage on Saturday at 9 am. 

I’ll probably reduce training from the week after the seventh.  

Maybe keep it down to one session a week. 

Until my funds come through. 

Let’s hope Centrelink don’t question me about working and not declaring.  

They will. 

I’ll be doubly screwed. 

They know everything.  

Drag it out. 

I don’t really need the money. 

Everyone else wants a slice of it. 

Go for it.  

My mission always has been to lose weight. 

I’m happy with that. 

Also getting my teeth tended to. 

Two infections on each canine. 

Man, I’ve been in the wars. 

So nice not having that abscess.  

So nice not having swelling in my sinuses. 

So nice to reduce the chances of swelling in the face. 

I’ll hold out against the idea of getting new teeth. 

Just too pricey.  

Just because you have the money doesn’t mean you should spend it. 

There’s a pandemic and a recession.  

Hold onto it.  

For a rainy day.  

Duromine is making you spend. But it’s for your health.  

Massages, private trainer, all contributing towards a better you. 

Don’t be disheartened.  

You can’t expect miracles in two months.  

But you can work towards your goals.  

Consistency is the key.  

Who knows, you might break 100 kilos soon. 

You are only three kilos away.  

I suspect the doctors' scales were misbehaving that day.  

It does happen.  

For some reason I’m irritable.  

I’ve become their slave.  

They aren’t complaining.  

‘You are the king,’ I said to the dog. 

He’s also showing off with his spending.  

We both should be careful. 

It’s an aphrodisiac we can ill afford. 

Be nice to Congo Bongo. 

He is the innocent lamb. 

Worried he’s spending too much time in his room. 

I’ll keep up training with my instructor. 

You can afford it for next month. 

Live a bit. 

Spend a bit. 

Nothing excessive. 

It’s an investment in your future. 

Besides, the girls are really nice. 

Talk about this in a month’s time. 

You’ll thank me for it. 

No more dry mouth. 

No more rush. 

No more nothing. 

Have I built up a resistance to them? 

Diet. 

A bit hit and miss. 

It costs money to eat well. 

I make do with basics. 

Not big into meats. 

Sausages, steak, lamb. 

No, I’d be even fatter. 

Off pasta for a long time. 

That was just pure fat inducing.  

Shoulder’s a bit stiff. 

Don’t push it.  

But not muscle strain.  

Be careful. 

Ran for half an hour today.  

I really do good speed.  

It’s the dentist work that is fucking you. 

It's ruining scope for the other services. 

Cunts. 

But I love Dr. Mike and the staff. 

I’ve lost ten kilos. 

Come on, it’s time to rejoice. 

I’ve joined a gym. 

Nine visits now. 

I’ve walked two marathons. 

My knee is better. 

I have a personal trainer. 

I get out of the house.  

I’m doing the very best.  

And I’ve got Mr. Telco to thank for this. 

I’m a doer, not a gunna. 

Wise words, asswipe.  

It was the lesson you had to learn.  

‘I’ve Been Tired,’ a great song by the Pixies.  

It’s how I felt before I started taking Duromine. 

Congo Bongo’s end of the house is getting to stink. 

Outside his room at the end of the corridor, he’s swept his rubbish there. 

Can only wish that Trang does an inspection.  

I won’t snitch. 

Too time consuming. 

Called up Centrelink Compensation line. 

Told them what the developments are. 

Better I told them than the snake oil salesman. 

He says keep on top of it and cut your lawyer costs. 

Sound advice.  

I’m on top of things. 

Jordan is sick.  

Seeing him on Monday, 12.30. 

Hope he gets well soon. 

He’s a great guy.  

I suspect Duromine is breaking down fat.  

It’s not showing on the scales.  

It’s showing in a reduced stomach. 

I’m grateful. 

And I’ll work harder. 

Rewards are in sight.  

Need to pick up the Big W coupon. 

Do I see Chan or Abdul, or both? 

This could my ticket parade.  

Zach remembered my name.  

I was impressed. 

He comes from a lifesaving background. 

He used to row boats. 

Hard core I said. 

He is from Wollongong.  

We have made a connection.  

Told him a few stories about Southport.  

He seemed impressed. 

That I know the culture. 

Magpies having a Spring session outside my window. 

I recorded it. 

Then I saw younger ginger. 

Empty handed.  

What went on out there is only speculation.  

Wonder if Cialis will kick in again today.  

Will watch some porn and find out. 

Shoulder a bit sore. 

But I’ll massage out the kinks.  

I’m taking better care of myself. 

I can feel Duromine paying me a visit today. 

Took it about 5 am. 

I want it to burn fat while I’m asleep. 

Got ten tablets left so I must be on week three of 40 mgs. 

If I can lose another five kilos by the end of the month, I’ll be very happy. 

I pissed a litre, or one kilogram of liquid last night. 

Measured it on scales, need to take off 200 mills for the bucket. 

I’ve lost the same amount of weight as the water bottle I do exercises with. 

That’s a lot less weight I’m carrying around on my knees. 

What a wonderful outcome.  

It was one of my original goals. 

Don’t be down and despair. 

You have made fantastic progress. 

And only in six weeks. 

There’s the proof in the pudding.  

Lift up the fifteen-kilogram bottle and feel the weight. 

That’s been stripped off your frame.  

Even the bones are thanking you for it. 

They can now support muscle as they are supposed to. 

Spending at Big W can wait. 

The voucher isn’t disappearing any time soon.  

Late arrivals are always the best.  

Shows you aren’t a gold digger after a gift card. 

Which I am. 

I weighed in at 104 on Anytime Fitness gym. 

It can’t be right, even after I worked out, I weighed 103.5. 

Let me check at the chemist. 

I do once a week, on a Friday. 

I got the chemist to come over.  

Can you check this out, I said to Omar? 

His family is from Iraq. 

Andy was there. 

I was one kg over. 

So, I adjusted that. 

Then I weighed in at 102.  

Omar, or Ahmed checked it. 

102 he said. 

What about without clothes. 

Let’s make it 101. 

That would be cheating, I said.  

But he was right, closer to 101 than 101.5. 

Always use the same scale, he said. 

I’m lousy with fucking Dago names. 

I’m an Ivan actually. 

Andy was happy, keep up the good work, watch your diet and keep on consuming Duromine. 

Up to four months I said. 

Even longer said Andy.  

Until you have reached your ideal weight.  

Sounds right.   

Ahmed. That’s it. 

He has a tattoo, Muslim themes, all over his body. 

Cool I said. 

He’s an interesting guy. 

Andy said 12 grand was ok for compensation. 

He seemed happy.  

So, should I be happy. 

He signed the form for me when I filled out my compensation form. 

He’s been all the way. 

Serious shitting and serious piles flare up. 

Two codeine tablets later. 

Feels better today.  

Missed the massage. 

Wasn’t in a great state to get one. 

I can always re-book. 

Duromine. 

You were with me in a big bad way. 

There’s a price to everything. 

I’ve lost 15 kgs. 

No pain no gain, right? 

I get it. 

Cooked up two egg sandwiches. 

Needed to put food back in my system. 

Let’s see if the shit today will be gentle. 

I’ve got nine more pills left in the packet. 

I won’t give up.  

My aim is true. 

Do I have the shakes? 

Reminds me of my Valium daze. 

Am I becoming a junkie again? 

A lighter one. 

Of course. 

To be expected. 

Don’t give up the fight. 

Stand up for your right to be lighter.  

The better you. 

 Just keep the faith. 

You’ll find a few obstacles along the way. 

You’ve got a codeine hangover. 

That’s all.  

Ride it out. 

You have taken more for your teeth. 

Think about gym. 

Think about exercise. 

  

    Claudia, a fantastic trainer. 

She pushed me in ways not imaginable. 

I could only ride with it and try and keep up to her expectations. 

I’m paying for someone to get the whip out. 

She did it gently.  

The abdominals are thanking me for it. 

I was totally annihilated. 

Feeling better today.  

As you would.  

Coffee kicking in. 

I’m going out. 

Need to buy more. 

Hoping piles don’t play up today. 

Wishful thinking. 

This could be a bigger problem. 

Or it could go away.  

Slowly coming good. 

Hold out on a shit. 

You haven’t got much inside you anyway. 

Give the anus a chance to rest. 

You don’t want another rim on fire situation again. 

Faith can sing all day. 

All night. 

She can do it all her life. 

Before you know it, she’s dead, singing. 

What a waste of life. 

Faith by name, faith by bovine nature. 

And what a disturbance. 

Day in and day out, hours and hours of her singing. 

Singing is a curse. 

She is cursed.  

Fucking Africans.  

They are freaks.  

Freaks of human nature. 

They can’t even sing.  

So why do they bother?  

No shame whatsoever. 

They’ll sing and annoy anyone who is unfortunate to be under the same roof. 

It’s their divine fucking right.  

The only thing that will stop her singing is a big cock. 

She might like that.  

Day in and day out she sings. 

Sounds of bloody village life. 

Sings, sings and sings.  

Why doesn’t she look for a job? 

The Congo idiot keeps on paying her rent. 

He’s in love.  

It’s all one-sided.  

Little deep voiced Congo Bongo living in his fantasy world. 

She won’t even clean the mess outside his room. 

I do it. 

She won’t even clean his room. 

God, it must be full of maggots by now. 

She doesn’t ever sweep or mop. 

Or throw rubbish out. 

She’s the Queen, the bear minimum.  

The Congo dog taught her well. 

The man who never throws out rubbish. 

‘I throw it in the bin.’  

Not the same. 

You need to empty the bin from time to time. 

Don’t be dumb. 

It’s not becoming of you. 

‘But it saves me throwing out the rubbish, boy I had the Vietnamese fooled.’  

You had everyone fooled except me. 

‘What is your mission?’ 

Let’s not go there Congo Bongo. 

You are distracting us from the issue that you are a lazy cunt who never 

throws out the rubbish. 

Yet you are the most vile and disgusting person in this household. 

‘What is your mission?’ 

Yes, I’m a white racist who cleans up after you. 

‘You don’t like Africans.’  

You got all the arguments.  

For someone who doesn’t speak much English you are doing pretty well. 

You are a dirty black spirit that smells. 

Faith will never speak bad about Bongo. 

That’s what she calls him. 

‘I just put the mop in some bleach.’ 

After he used it in his room, it needs decontamination, I added. 

No comment. 

I say this as a hint that I’m always cleaning up after the black cunt. 

No comment. 

She’s also a lazy black cunt. 

And Bongo is paying for her rent and food. 

It’s in her best interest not to agree with me. 

I find her only half a person. 

As if all that praying to god has given her a lobotomy. 

She must be in bliss. 

Eight more 40 mg pills left. 

Ass hurting after I took a shit this morning. 

What can I do? 

Eat more fibre. 

More vegetables. 

Worked out for three hours. 

An hour on treadmill doing intervals of one minute at level 12. 

Killed me. 

Lost nearly a kilogram in sweat after the work-out.  

 

Actually 750 ml. 

I was down to 102.5 on the gym scale. 

Still impressive. 

I could never get under 108. 

Only reached 105 or 107 after a few months with the runs, in the height of summer when I was doing roadie work. 

On Duromine, I’m 101.5. 

I’m onto my seventh week. 

I’m not giving up. 

Feeling lighter. 

Wanking is better. 

Cialis is visiting me today. 

I did nothing with its last night. 

I did today. 

Better than Viagra. 

It comes back to pay visits, days after taking it. 

If I sit down, ass doesn’t feel so bad. 

It will come and go. 

But I’m not taking codeine. 

It just makes me feel fuzzy the next day, even on Duromine. 

I hate the Africans. 

I won’t throw out their rubbish. 

Don’t be weak. 

Prove to them you are not a weak white boy. 

Let them do work. 

They are lazy sloths. 

Primitives. 

I’ll only start writing about them when they prove their worth. 

But I won’t hold my breath.  

I told Bongo I cleaned the toilet. 

‘You are a very good man.’  

It’s a few handy verbal loops he uses over and over. 

God knows what the dog’s thought process is in Swahili. 

Probably dumbs down his vocabulary to his real level. 

Faith woke up late today. 

‘Sunday is my holiday.’  

It was bliss. 

No fucking singing till the afternoon.  

Throw out your own rubbish. 

And mop or clean up around your bin area. 

I can see a few chicken bones too. 

Stop doing it for them.  

You are only being their slave if you do. 

And showing weakness. 

African’s thrive on weakness. 

Try not to talk to Bongo, he’s an idiot and doesn’t make sense. 

And Faith isn’t interested in playing translator. 

She’d prefer to practice her dark arts. 

‘Someone is trying to attack me.’  

Who could it be? 

Not me of course. 

I’m cleaning up their area again. 

I threw out their rubbish.  

They are using magic on me, so I do their cleaning. 

Africans are idle sons of bitches and whores. 

Can’t really say I miss the Nepalese Dog. 

He was just a control freak. 

A noisy dirty lazy control freak who also hated whites. 

Good fucking riddance. 

He caused me more grief than the Africans in some ways. 

Congo Bongo. 

The dirty cunt. 

He is the king here. 

I need to show him respect. 

Could be worse. 

Could be that boong dog. 

Now he was just up himself and nasty. 

‘If you want to behave like an animal, I’ll lock you up in the back shed.’ 

Just try cunt. Just try. 

I was a paying guest. 

He didn’t know how to keep his tenants. 

Being a murderer who got off lightly because of his skin colour, didn’t cut the grade in the competitive real estate market. 

I don’t miss him at all. 

He was a bogan crack head. 

Who wanted easy money? 

Duromine Diaries continue. 

Wolf Mask is back to interviewing me. 

Piles getting worse. 

I’m thinking of taking a Duromine day off. 

Clear my head up. 

Seven weeks on speed. 

What is it like off the gear? 

Let’s see. 

Haemorrhoids getting worse. 

Speed sucking out everything it can. 

Including water. 

Let’s take a few days off and see if piles get better. 

What is it like to be normal? 

Was I ever normal? 

Not sure but need a strong coffee. 

I’m sure Duromine is still sloshing around in my system. 

I’ll draw upon that. 

Maybe my Indian doctor cared about me. 

Yes, that’s it.  

He did. 

Not many doctors like him around.  

I take my hat off to him. 

It was the wakeup call I needed. 

My knee is feeling fantastic. 

Running is a treat. 

Bongo said if you are bleeding in the ass, ‘better stop taking the pill.’ 

Might just take up that advice. 

Nearly two months and about 15 kilograms lighter, it’s time to do the rest myself. 

Duromine is always handy. 

But let’s dry out. 

Dry out Tuesday. 

Fuck I've had a blast on Duromine and will have more blasts. 

Might look for that grape seed oil, and if it works, back on the Techno Pill lol. 

It's good to test your will power.  

So, it's coffee today.  

Duromine will be swilling in my system for months, I'm sure of that. 

I even smell of it. 

Some great shitting and blood. 

Duromine you blood sucker. 

I’ll devote four thousand words to you today. 

We must part ways. 

You are slowly killing me. 

But your help has been noted. 

I took the last 40 mg over 24 hours ago. 

Withdrawals should be almost over. 

Evil flatulence. 

Hitler must have been taking speed. 

And bad breath. 

And metallic taste. 

You served your purpose. 

Week seven, I need to pull the plug. 

Timed to perfection. 

A week earlier. 

I can deal with a bit of rectum bleeding. 

But I won’t be lured anymore by your seduction.  

Man, it’s so nice to eat food and taste it. 

To smell it. 

To salivate over it. 

Duromine certainly suppressed those senses. 

Now off Duromine, need to make the exercise take up the slack. 

Nice feeling almost normal again. 

Gone are my brash ways.  

Gone, gone.  

Just hope the weight doesn’t creep back on. 

Ate two meals today. 

But I shitted out three. 

Hi ho hi ho, off to the gym we go. 

My, hasn’t Jason grown up overnight.  

Can hardly recognize him. 

I’m sure he feels the same about me.  

My stealthy diet. 

No one has commented how I’ve lost weight.  

So, I’m still a fat fuck, I guess. 

A day off Duromine did me the world of good. 

Six pills left. 

Started getting munchies in the evening. 

Pigged out on three meals yesterday. 

I’m far from cured. 

Abscess flaring up. 

It is paying me a visit. 

Yes, I can stop Duromine. 

I proved that. 

And I can take it. 

Fear and loathing. 

I’m a disgrace to myself. 

The piles were playing up. 

A day off the pill, here and there, not a bad idea. 

You were eating too much off the pill. 

A good work-out. 

But you were back to eating.  

Let’s see what happens with the piles. 

Can only get better with all the veggies you have eaten. 

Trang offered me to marry her friend again. 

I am marriage material. 

I’m 52. 

Good, not old, said Trang. 

Back on the 30 mgs. 

The 40s are too fierce. 

I need the gentle soothing 30 mg. 

I’m down to 101 kg. 

‘You’ve lost weight,’ said Danial, who sold me the first packet of Duromine. 

There’s double trouble, I said.  

He was with Andy, my favourite chemist who is Vietnamese. 

He loves my little stabs at the Chinese. 

Harmless fun. 

‘I can see you have lost the weight in your face,’ continued Daniel. 

Gym going very well. 

The chemist is a hub of fun.  

I bought some fish oil tablets on Claudine’s recommendation. 

Duromine is slow to kick in today. 

I still need a crap. 

I need to write like I did in the earlier days.  

I don’t like the keyboard on this computer. 

My ass hurts. 

I’ve got some new ointment that I insert up my ass. 

It is working wonders. 

Feeling a bit tired today. 

Nearly two weeks at the gym. 

I’m pushing hard. 

Muscles are being worked. 

My trainers are pushing me. 

I’m paying for results.  

Running and riding.  

I’m working on my cardio.  

I miss my long walks. 

But I need to give knees a fighting chance. 

Wear and tear of long walks and risk of disturbing left knee on anything raised on the footpath, is mitigated in the gym’s-controlled environment. 

God bless, Duromine 30 mgs is paying me a visit. 

Took it at 4 am. Six hours later, it’s showing its sleepy head.  

Two months as of today on Duromine.  

My life will never be the same. 

A lifestyle choice. 

The bitch is singing. 

Shameless. 

I hate her even more. 

Never a moment of rest here.  

As I write this, I’m wearing ear plugs, noise cancelling headsets and have the music turned up loud to filter the Africans. 

She drives me out of the house. 

I walk longer distances to avoid her.  

She’s taken over the place.  

And Bongo’s sickening smell from his room is an odorous attack.  

African psychological warfare.  

I might take headphones off and blast then with the super speaker. 

I slammed the door about six am.  

It felt liberating that I might have woken up the dirty face stains. 

I will fuck off soon.  

I can’t stand being around that Kenyan bitch.  

She’s my enemy.  

She came here to study an MBA in business.  

Now she’s into full time voodoo.  

Primitive.  

Feeling better. 

Headphones broken. 

It just cracked 

Happened when the whore was in kitchen. 

Taped it up. 

Last night I dropped my headset in a pot full of water that Faith left in the sink.  

The headphones were soaked in water. 

She is doing magic on me. 

I’m sure of that.  

I have images of going in her room and beating the shit out of her.  

Thought crime, right? 

Just to let her know who is boss. 

She knows the law is on her side. 

I suspect she’s an illegal. 

Do I report her for the third time? 

No, no and I won’t punch her out. 

‘How do you know if you got dirt on you face?’ 

That’s one of the most hard-hitting questions to ask an African. 

Hit them where it hurts most.  

God’s curse. 

Primitives. 

Starvation, genocide, AIDS, Ebola, you name it. 

That’s Africans.  

Why is the West trying to help them dig wells? 

For fucks sake, the great pyramids of Egypt are on the same fucking continent. They must have possessed construction skills at some point. 

Now I’m sweeping up for the retards. 

That’s progress. 

Progress.  

Congo Bongo threatened to cut off my head if I ever talked about  

throwing his rubbish out. 

 The police, who I called up, sided with him. 

 Trang the Vietnamese landlady told the police I always complained, and I was messy. 

 Faith didn’t think it strange that someone was going to get their  

head cut off. 

That it was my head, even interested her less. 

I’m living on borrowed time. 

 The prophecy nearly came to pass 

 I’m the outsider in my own country. 

 Being white and born here is a curse.  

 

The Africans served their purpose.  

All bitching aside, I lost weight.  

Thanks to Faith, for keeping me away from the household. 

     And Congo Bongo, for instilling the fear in me and motivating me to work out longer and harder. I always made sure I came home early in the morning, sometime after midnight, knowing I may avoid either the Africans and avoid a confrontation which could either get me boiled in water or have my head chopped off.