Yeah! We’re moving back to Melbourne! Rock!
Adam thought of the idea last week, and it actually makes a great deal of sense. He’s left his job and is currently working freelance. I’m going to get laid off within the next couple of months (it’s not entirely clear exactly when, but we’re talking about multinationals, the grand masters of corporate vague). We’ll have a bit of cash in our hand from my payout, so why not make the move early?
We’ll probably live with my parents for a while until we’ve both got jobs, which could prove both amusing and painful considering my parents worship Adam as more of a son than I am to them.
This also means that I’m not continuing my application with the super-mega-cool job I applied for back in fucking December. Do I really want to work for a company – no matter how cool they may be – if they take over three months just to decide who gets a job, from a shortlist of three people? I’m beginning to think I don’t want to. Can you imagine how goddamn disorganised they must be? Screw them. I’m not going to name them here quite yet, but certainly will later on ;)
I mentioned to a friend today that I’m now looking forward to receiving their next phone call with bleating excuses about the length of time this drawn-out process is taking. “I THANK YOU FOR YOUR OFFER. HOWEVER, BEING THE HIGHLY SOUGHT-AFTER MEDIA MAGNATE THAT I AM, MANY MORE OFFERS HAVE GUSHED MY WAY, SINCE YOUR FRANKLY AMUSING PETTY LITTLE POSITION BEGAN GENTLY TICKLING THE ARSEHOLE OF MY FUTURE CAREER PROSPECTS. I WISH YOU THE BEST AS I BEGIN AMASSING A CROSSMEDIA EMPIRE WHICH CAN ONLY CRUSH YOU LIKE THE BRITTLE BONES OF A YOUNG INFANT UNDER AN UNFORTUNATELY MISLOCATED SLAB OF CONCRETE. CHEERIO!”
This all means I’m furiously selling as much unnecessary shit we’ve got sitting around here on eBay as quickly as possible. Although when we move next time, I’m going to be monitoring what’s packed rather closely. Even just moving upstairs to this apartment the other week meant numerous items disappeared rather suspiciously.
They’re usually items that are really of no longterm consequence, but rather necessary for stupid small tasks. For example, the strainer. I have no idea where the strainer went. When Adam cooked up some spaghetti the other week and realised there was no strainer, he began looking for “an old tshirt” that he could strain the spaghetti through.
If furry pasta wasn’t enough, I was quite sick after eating the meal. This roused my suspicions that Adam had used a VERY WRONG T-SHIRT to strain the spaghetti. The kind of VERY WRONG T-SHIRT that sits underneath the bed, if you begin to get the picture. Special sauce indeed.
But MELBOURNE! Not quite yet, but in the next few months. I can’t wait to move back.