No Night Sweats N o  N i g h t  S w e a t s No Night Sweats
Sydney's Post-Punk Bands
I Like Music
Slapp Happy are Terrific
A List of CDs
Text is What I Write
Crime Fiction is Silly
[ Ride The Wild Choo Choo ]
Whilst commuting for hours and hours and hours in (what seems to be and, in fact, IS) the dead of night you must pass the endless, exhausting, hysterical time in some righteous way otherwise your brain will explode (which will annoy everyone in the carriage - and we wouldn't want that, now would we?). 

Try these patented methods : 

(a) Have a long, snore filled snooze, punctuated occasionally by a couple of noisome, wet farts thrown in for good measure (you'll just have to believe me when I say that I have NOT taken up this particular option although, how the hell would I know if I'm asleep?) 

(b) Stick your face in a good book and drift effortlessly into the exciting, magnificent, non-commuting world that the writer (who obviously leads an electrifying life of weekday dinner parties that go on till dawn) has created for you. Unfortunately, in the earliest hours of the morning, a sub-standard book will often lead to option (a) being invoked instead - be ever watchful. 

(c) Insert a pair of well used, wax coated headphones into your ears and play your favourite techno music very LOUDLY until you either get a headache that rips your skull open from brow to bleeding base or the 10 people closest to you can't take the irritating chicka-chicka-chicka noise anymore, slip into a multi-homicidal rage and beat you to a slow, preferably agonizing death with their bare hands. (NB - this option is not recommended for children less than 16 years of age) 

(d) Let your eyes glaze over slowly with a robotic, metallic sheen, your mouth to part ever so slightly (allowing a small dribble of spittle to ooze from the corner) and your muscles to relax almost totally [watch out for residual farts from option (a)!]. You are now in the Commuting Zone. This option requires an almost Zen-like dedication to travelling the train backwards and forwards from one far off urban centre to another, a be-draggled brain that cannot turn itself completely off, eyes so rimmed with blood that they burn endlessly with tears and ears so numbed and drugged from listening to music made by computers that they just can NOT listen anymore. 

You could live closer to your workplace, but that'd be 'No fun, my babe, no fun'
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