DAMN YOU IBOGA.
I’d been feeling the call for a few weeks now. A big chapter in my life had come to a close. I’d just turned 40. I’d left Darwin, my beloved home for the past three years, stability dissappearing in the rearview mirror as I drove aimlessly for thousands of kilometres around the country trying to work out my next move. The first adult relationship of my life had just ended in a flaming wreck, just like a real adult relationship. My heart felt like a concentration camp and not the fun kind. Not only that, but the elastic in my final remaining pair of underwear no longer had any stretch left.
I was pretty close to ending it all. Oh, I don’t mean killing myself, I’m talking about ending the whole sorry business of ever wearing underwear again — I mean what real purpose do undergarments honestly serve? They just seem to add another unnecessary layer of inteference when one engaged in any genital or bowel related activities, and yet somehow they became a standard norm that no one even questioned anymore. The only use underwear seemed to have, was to safeguard you against the unlikely incident of someone pulling your pants down in public and should there be any children around, preventing you from accidentally exposing yourself to minors in public. But unless you worked in a school or were a school child yourself (which legally wasn’t as much of a crime should a minor expose themselves to another minor), when…
