Not only just for some.

I had a very strange experience in a public toilet the other day.
And no, it's not what you're thinking....
...pervert.
It involved nothing sexual, digestive, or drug related, thank you very much.
I was in Coburg with a couple of my favourite people. We'd been apartment-hunting for my friend B in Brunswick, (successfully, it turns out, thankfully, as B lives in Ballarat and my friend S and I are sick of having to travel innumerable kilometres or waiting several hours to see him). So we'd stopped in Coburg for coffee (it turns out my double shot was an exceptionally strong double shot and considering it was only 2pm and was my fifth for the day, I later felt like I was dying) (that's fifth coffee, by the way, which doesn't necessarily mean fifth shot), and the only toilet nearby was one of those fancy button-pressing, door-sliding, voice-talking metal toilets that scare the hell out of me.
Hear me out. When I walked in, it told me to press the button to "seal the door". I was confused, firstly, that the toilet was talking to me, and secondly that it wanted me to press a button that apparently did not exist. This didn't seem to be a problem, however, as the door sealed itself and then told me in a mechanical American voice that the "door is locked - press button to exit".
"But", I thought, in a panic, "But there is no button, Stephen Hawking-esque mechanical voice!"
Hearing my pleas, the toilet proceeded to play "What The World Needs Now Is Love" in what I can only assume was a misguided attempt to soothe the sheer terror growing inside me.
After several minutes of clawing at the interior of the shiny, shiny toilet cubicle in the crazed frenzy of a trapped and terrified bandicoot, until I managed to escape via accidentally palming a flat and non-pressable circular indent in the wall, and fleeing in horror.

But this horrific and highly dramatised experience did get me to thinking.
The first thing it got me to thinking was that I would never use a toilet like that ever again, followed closely by the idea that Burt Bacharach was a loved-up, cheesy tosser who probably wrote lovesongs only to get laid and never actually fell in love.
However, what it mostly got me to thinking was: "What DOES the world need more of?"
I reached a few conclusions, as follows:

1. Disco piano, disco clapping, and disco strings.
I've been listening to this fantastic Spanish band that sings in broken-English over bad recordings of disco beats and the like for the last few days. AND IT MAKES ME FEEL SO MUCH BETTER ABOUT LIFE. Strange Spanish men trying to sing about life's problems in a fashion that is several decades late is ALWAYS worthwhile. ALWAYS.

2. Hideously embarrassing and unashamedly crazy dancing.
I have this wonderful friend D (incidentally, his name is actually shared by an American city, so work that one out, bitchez). He is polite, witty, well-read, a musician, small of stature and interested in philosophy.
He is also the most insane dancer I have ever witnessed in my life. And he doesn't even need booze. He arm-flails, booty-shakes, knee-twists, toe-taps, head-jolts, and, on very special occasions, pole-dances.
This guy brings out the insane dancer in me.
I used to be, like many literary and music-focused nerds, terrified of public dancing. The thought of wild-limb-flailing was shocking, unless I'd drank far too much. Until I saw this guy dancing at a music function last year, going insane, without alcohol, and it made me want to dance ALL THE TIME. He was SO HAPPY. He dances and he doesn't care what ANYONE thinks, and it's so admirable that all I want to do now is dance like a crazy person. Regardless of how gangly and goofy and awkward I am.
It's like Chris says in Skins: "I think dancing is one of the best things you can do. Because it's good for your body... and your mind."
Or something to that extent. What am I, a fucking pop culture dictionary? Look it up yourself.

3. Delicious homemade food with good friends.
Even if it goes terribly wrong. ESPECIALLY if it goes terribly wrong. Some of the best times I've had have been with friends destroying perfectly cookable dishes. Then drinking wine with them.
You know. One of the pleasures of life.

Anyway. Sorry this is such a lame blog post. In truth, today I got most of my exam results back. I spent four hours a day working my arse off for one subject, until I physically couldn't do any more - I ended up with severe RSI and was in a world of pain for weeks. And I barely passed the subject. They barely deemed me passable.
And I'm thinking: "I want to make a career out of this shit... I changed courses for this and I worked harder than I've worked on anything... and I have a pass by four per cent to show for it?"
On top of that, one of my favourite people just moved to another part of the country. It made me sadder than I thought it would, because I think I realised that I really appreciate him more than I thought, and that we were on the same level, and you're so rarely on the same level. You so rarely share the same ideas and feelings with people. I hate it when they leave.
Or maybe I'm just down. Yeah. Probably.
Love you, little bloggers.
xx