The anticipation of death is far worse than death itself

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Re: Непереводимое слово
bombcat
I am cyberpenning this entry at a Paradise Apartments in Lakes Entrance. Between keystrokes I am sipping a cold Johnnie Walker & Coke and munching Arnott’s Country Cheese crackers. At the property across the road there are some sheep and fluffy horse-bears (alpacas). Before gracing this beachy joint with our presence, we spent last night in Bermagui (getting gooey in the ‘Gui), NSW, a typical coastal Strayan town whose stunningly picturesque beauty is rivaled only by the breathtaking views one may enjoy in East Samarkand.
The Lakes Entrance beach has a postcard-worthy appearance, although it doesn’t come close to the Playboy centerfold awesomeness of the ‘Gui beach. One may notice that the sand line of here’s beach is very long and unusually wide (that’s what she said) and the sand makes farting noises when trodden upon. Unfortunately, Lakes Entrance is populated with some rather unsavoury humanoids, in stark contrast to the striking nature surrounding this sunny town.
Needless to say, the much overhyped and overpromised end of the world did not occur at the end of last year, which is a damn shame indeed; such a rare event would have made for some excellent entry fodder. Nevertheless, 2012’s turned out to be very different to that of 2011, which I spent on one of the cold and snowy asteroids of the CIS Planetary System, sinking bitey shots of Nemiroff and enjoying all manner of tastylicious Communist cuisineses prepared by my folks. I enjoyed Xmas/NYE ’12 with my girlfriend and her family in the Blue Mountains, having visited a slew of nifty towns (including the nation’s capital) beforehand. Now that I’m on the subject of cuisineses, please note that the Mexican place in Lakes Entrance serves driveway-flavoured corn chips.
At times, I enjoy good-looking bush and new places and natureful nature as much as the next thingo, but enjoy spending lots of time on the road I do not. In fact, my bitch factor gets turned way up and percolates at the Kanye level when such situations continually present themselves. Yes, I happen to be one of those nasty and grumpy couch potato types who just do not enjoy travelling, no matter how exciting the trip or how exotic (or otherwise) the destination. I struggle to understand the wild-eyed backpackers who willingly place themselves in potential danger by travelling to potentially dangerous faraway shitholes and willingly pay for the pleasure with their hard-earned cash. Getting stuck in the middle of a dark Romanian highway due to a faulty Combie van just isn’t my idea of fun. There goes my travel writing career.
As I write, I realise that my ability to pen a decent entry bears a direct relationship to my inability to access the World Wide Web, which just happens to be the case at the present moment. Shit just doesn’t get done when I’m online, due in large part to the much-maligned F5 syndrome, whereby one just has constantly to refresh Facebook or some forum populated by honourable keyboard warriors to see if new shit dun gots poasted.
In fact, I am convinced that the F5 syndrome is part of the reason it’s difficult nowadays to locate a well-written blog in the big ol’ blogosphere. Like, you know, actual writing – actually producing original and well-crafted prose, not recycling content like a bitch and posting a metric crudtonne of links, pictures and Kim Kardashian’s retweets of Donald Trump’s retweets. So yea, I like deffenantly gots to lvl up this whole entry business a few notches. No matter how messed up my day turns out, it is never a day wasted as long as I’ve written something. I cannot think of anything more therapeutic and cathartic than writing. 

Happy new beer, cunts! 

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