Category: The Desk of Gabriel Morton

Not a real desk

The Zinger Pie

The Zinger Pie

A lot of the respect that monks get is undeserved. What? Any idiot can be zen if you take away every stress of the modern world. The truly at peace can walk among the thorns and not mind the scratches. After all, it’s the scratches that make the undamaged skin feel good. But then, what do you do when the scratches pile up? When the scar tissue envelopes you like an impenetrable carapace? What happens when the zen reduces your life to a meditative hum so esoteric the only monastery that will have you is Centrelink?

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When Flanders Failed

When Flanders Failed

My Recollection

Left-handed pinking shears. That didn’t hurt very much. Ooowaaah.

It was when they all dropped to their knees and began hammering the riff to We Will Rock You into the PCYC floor, while a buzzcut coach shouted at them about tomorrow’s tournament, that I knew I’d been lied to about stereotypes.

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Living Arrangements

Living Arrangements

Housemates, can’t live with ’em and casual labour laws that favour business interests means you can’t live without ’em. Back in the day, I lived in a big one in the Valley with a rotating ensemble cast of about 7-8 other people and innumerable guests. It was a vile flop-house full of degenerates and one of my fondest memories. That said, living with that many other people has its challenges, and these challenges eventually caused me to snap. What I wrote came from a specific time and place in my life, but is applicable to any time and place where directionless adults cluster for warmth.

I wrote this in 2012 when my recent sobriety meant I could suddenly smell everything. It will apply to people you know. It will apply to places you’ve lived. It may even apply to you. It is

An Open Letter to Housemates

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