The taste of bittersweet

So here's fresh-faced young me sallying forth into a rather prestigious newsroom for a week of work experience, saliva stored up for the kissing of suitable butts. Sadly, fresh-faced young Doug is also toting a Heavy Heart which makes for maudlin train rides and a lack of enthusiasm. There was a girl, she who must not be blogged. Her emotional backlog has claimed her.

In some ways, I feel freed. She's been the best thing in my life, my lifebuoy since I came back from Japan. Now I'm tetherless. I should put my money where my mouth is and go and do the time-honoured journo thing: get a job on a country paper. I hear Swan Hill needs a journalist. Swan Hill produces citrus and racists, from my limited knowledge of the place. Kerrang also needs a journo. Shows how much I know. I thought Kerrang was a metal magazine. See, politicians always get fucked if they Neglect The Bush. Look at Kennett. Look at what Bracks is not doing. Yep, the bush comes back to bite you. Because someone has to grow our food.

Places I would love to live and work in for a year or two:

Broome (Pearls. Racism. Beautiful beaches. Amazing scuba diving. More multicultural than preening Melbourne)
Darwin (Crocodiles. Sea you can't swim in. Stubby shorts. No questions asked employers of former crims. Real fights in pubs. Cheap mangoes. A reliable source of dubious and hilarious front pages.

Aw, hell, all of Capricornia, really. I have a real urge to go bush and not come back for a long time. Yep, I've got a strong urge to run away. Melbourne is nothing as I fantasised it to be. I'm nothing like how I fantasised I would be like in Melbourne.

Japan's been coming back to me in dreams and waking in little patches superimposed over the realer reality of here. It felt like a dream when I was living there; now it comes back to me, haunting, bright snatches and contextless snippets that I have no control over. I feel rootless.