Now I’ve been hit by a car [Part Two]


Okay, first thing I have to do en route to the medical centre: text Mum. She works a few buildings away and is generally good in these kinds of situations. I tried to play down the whole getting-hit-by-a-car thing, which is a lot harder than it sounds. I reckon I do pretty well:

Hey Mum, it’s William. I was wondering if you could come down to the medical centre. I kind of got hit by a car. Nothing serious.

Mum obviously takes this to mean: “Holy shitballz, my son is dying”. While she’s in the process of freaking everyone out at her work, I’m beginning to realise that the Blonde is a terrible driver. Like, horrible. You’d think, her hitting me with her car would’ve alerted me to this fact, but no. I had to step inside her car and agree to let her drive me somewhere to realise it.

I should’ve cut my losses and just rolled down the hill to the medical centre, or better yet, taken up one of the witnesses who had cars’ offers to drive me to the medical centre, you know, the people who HADN’T JUST WHACKED ME WITH THEIR CARS.

But I was still in shock, so my judgement was a tad bit off…

Anyway, Mum calls. I look down at my phone.

Blonde: Who zat? Ze police?

I ignore her and answer.

Mum: What happened?

I tell her, in Greek obviously. I don’t want the driver hearing all the horribly colourful things I have to say about her.

Mum: What’s her name? Find out her name.

I clear my throat and opt for English. “Excuse me, sorry, what’s your name?”

Blonde: Olympia.

Shitballz.

I tell Mum.

Mum: What? You couldn’t tell she was Greek?

By this point, Olympia’s driven to Bondi Junction via Bangkok, but a series of no right turns delay our arrival. Mum’s there first. She preps the front desk for the arrival of “her son, who was just motored down by a wreckless driver”. So obviously, it’s a bit anti-climatic when I limp in with a scrape down one calf. I still get to skip the queue, so, win.

There’s a lot of lying down, some ice, some reflex tests, more lying down, more ice, and a thinly-veiled attempt to get out of an essay:

William: I have an essay due on Friday. Can you write me a note?

Doctor: I’m prescribing you to do nothing but sit down for a few days. Will that prohibit you from writing your essay?

William: If I say, “Yes,” would you believe me?

The doctor tells me I’ll need to keep off my leg for a few hours and Mum, fresh from making Olympia feel like absolute shit in the waiting room, comes in to offer to have me crash in her staffroom at work. I give the doctor a look that asks for mercy.

He doesn’t give it, and agrees this’d probably be wise. Mum works at a skin and vein clinic, so, naturally, she has an army of exceptionally qualified doctors checking my blood pressure and performing a whole range of tests. After a few hours of prodding and twisting, they reach the conclusion that I’m not dying.

If Mum’s overreaction, resulting in my sitting in my gym clothes being prodded and poked for the better part of three hours wasn’t embarrassing enough, the staffroom I was being prodded and poked in was also somebody’s office. Somebody I had asked out a few months prior. Somebody who, when I asked her if she’d like to go grab a movie some time, replied with, “I don’t think my boyfriend would like that very much,” and never texted again.

Awkward to the power of a bajillion.

Why I love getting hit by a car [Part One]


I drink because of all the bad stuff in my life, but it’s not some horrible coping mechanism.

See, I’ve always said, good stuff happens to me so that I have something to toast (so long as you have something to toast every time you drink, you’re not an alcoholic, so sayeth the self-help books I read for lulz). I also say that bad stuff happens to me so that I have something to write about. Eventually those written somethings become stories, which eventually become published, and eventually need to be toasted on Saturday nights out with friends.

That’s a roundabout way of saying I live for the bad stuff, I celebrate it because, as much as I dislike it, my livelihood depends on it. I’m always inspired by the bad stuff, far more than the happy, life-is-wonderful stuff.

You know you’re a writer when you get hit by a car and the first thing you think of is: this’d make a great short story.

So I’m there, standing in the middle of the road, looking back at the idiot woman who’s just hit me (I’m not sexist or smartist, I just make astute observations based on fact, and this person was both an idiot and a woman), and I’m already considering which novel it’d best fit in to.

Instinct says Courtney – I’ve trained my creative mind to assign a life experience to Courtney, I’ve been writing her for most of my life – but I don’t know, it doesn’t seem like a Courtney moment. I mentally browse my character rollerdex… Katie could work, I could probably run a joke about her giving the bonnet STIs into the ground… Danny Rooke, maybe, but this new book’s overstuffed with experience as it is… A new character is forming in my head now, a kid that got hit by the car, and from that incident, a whole chain of events is piling up, one on top of the other, as two seconds of car impact lead to an entire novel and… and…

And I remember I’m William Kostakis, and I’ve just been hit by a car. For real.

Now, it’s not as dramatic as it sounds. I always say “hit by a car” because people immediately imagine the full Hollywood roll-over-the-top thing and start doting over me, but no, it was the most epically anti-climactic car-hit ever.

To set the scene, I’m going to get all Agatha Christie diagramatic (is that a word?) on y’all and call upon my mad Paint illustrative skills:

I was just minding my own business, crossing (legally, mind you, the little man was green), when a woman performing a right-hand turn, performs that turn before I’ve finished to cross. Now, as is usually the case at this intersection, I thought she’d turn and stop and wait for me to finish crossing, but as Illustration #2 will demonstrate, she did not.

So, she’s half a metre away and I’m close enough to realise: A). She’s on her mobile; and B). She’s not stopping. I’m halfway through the lane she’s turning into, so, either I jump forward, or back, but either way, I’mma gunna get hit. So, I run forward, I figure, I can get more of me forward than I can back. She clips one of my legs and drags me a metre or so, nice and slowly, so I can look right through the windshield and ask, “What the fuck?”

As she continued up the street for a bit before pulling over, I continued to ask, “What the fuck?” to no-one in particular, standing in the middle of the road, looking at my reddening calf muscle, before limping to where she pulled over. At this point, people in other cars are asking if I’m okay, and calling out their numbers so that I have witnesses (insurance claim FTW).

Eventually, the woman (read: my ruthless attacker) steps out of the car.

‘Oh, mister, are you okay? What can I do? What can I do? I will do anything to help, mister.’

She’s six foot, bronzed, blonde, foreign, and asking if I need assistance. It seems I’ve not only been hit by a car, but I’ve also accidentally stumbled into the first scene of a porno.

‘Why you jump in front of my car?’ she asks.

‘I’m sorry, what?’ I’ve stopped imagining the porno .MIDI backing track.

‘He was crossing, you were on your phone, I saw you.’ Someone calls out from a neighbouring car.

‘No, I was not,’ she protests.

I muster, ‘Yeah, you were. I saw you.’

Her (amazing) reply, ‘No, was not. I was just holding it up, not speaking.’

It gets even better.

‘The sun… it was in my eyes,’ she says.

‘You’re wearing sunglasses,’ I say.

A woman who parked opposite us asks if I need a lift to the hospital.

Ruthless Amazonian driver, ‘No! I take him.’

I thank the random woman across the road for her offer, and tell the daft Amazonian to take me to the medical centre down the road. She opens the passenger door for me and makes room. I slip inside and

TO BE CONTINUED

I heart authordom


Given the tone and content of my last couple of posts – I figured I’d step back, rest the snark and just reflect.

It’s easy to lose sight of why I do this, authordom, I mean, what with the uni deadlines, the work deadlines, the publicity organisation, the interviews, and the piss-weak transcontinental blogger feuds. But every so often, I have a moment that grabs me by the hair and thrusts me back into the body of the Year One student who stood in front of his K-2 Assembly and read from his exercise book, the boy who looked up to see the 60-odd faces watching, the boy who knew then and there that this was what he wanted to do for the rest of his life: tell stories.

This afternoon, I had a moment. I Skyped with students at a Japanese international school. Just how surreal a thing it was to do only dawned on me after I closed the chat window. Books disappear. With initial sales like those it had, Loathing Lola probably should’ve disappeared. Heck, I’m thankful for every new Australian reader, but to spend 30 minutes of my day talking to kids I’ll probably never meet, in a place I’ve never been, in a country other than my own? Surreal!

I am truly thankful for my authordom path. Yes, Rowling-level success would have been nice, but I can’t say I’m not fortunate. 10 strangers Skyping with me about my writing mightn’t buy me a castle, secure me webhits, a new book deal, or a movie adaptation, but you know what?

It’s the reason why I’ll be writing all night.

So, I failed my Ps…


I performed an ‘illegal act or manoeuvre’. I know what you’re thinking: I went the wrong way down a one-way street, targeting and mowing down pedestrians for 500m, before capping it all off with a few burnouts and some curb-mounting.

I turned right too early.

Yes, that’s right. The Instant Fail offence. I turned right too early. I asked if it was against the law. It’s not. Then how is it ILLEGAL?!?!

I’m off to write a bitter poem about the RTA.

Omegle lulz


Omegle is made of awesome. For those of you that haven’t heard of it, Omegle connects you to a random person on the website, and you have a one-on-one conversation. I’m not gunna lie to you, it usually ends in some for of harassment, which is half the fun. So, give it a go. I’ll post up some of my chat-logs, and don’t forget to copy your logs, no matter how rude, in the comments section. 🙂

Connecting to server...
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
Stranger: I COMMAND YOU
You: HI
Stranger: BRING ME CHEESEBURGERS AND COLA
You: No.
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

Then…

Connecting to server...
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
Stranger: I COMMAND YOU
You: NOT U AGAIN
Stranger: BRING ME CHEESEBURGERS AND COLA
Stranger: NOW
You: IS IT WORTH IT
You: LET ME WORK IT
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

Okay, that conversation was the beginning of what I’ve come to describe as MissyElliotting, it’s sorta like getting RickRolled, only five bajillion times more infuriating. It’s where I try to get through as much of the lyrics of Missy Elliott’s insanely nonsensical Work It before someone disconnects. In the interest of good taste, I’ve censored some of the lyrics, but rest assured, it was copied into Omegle in all its… ‘glory’.

Connecting to server...
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
Stranger: hiii
You: is it worth it?
Stranger: brazil
Stranger: i from
You: let me work it
You: i'll put my thang down
You: flip it
You: and reverse it
You: it'syerfrempennifferswhetnyetcommon
You: i'd like to get to know ya so i can show ya
You: put my <BUNNIES> on ya like i told ya
You: gimme all yo numbers so i can phone ya
You: yo girl actin <BUNNIES> then call me ovah
You: not on your bed
You: <BUNNIES> me on your sofa
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

One guy saw my Missy Elliott, and raised me some Las Ketchup.

Connecting to server...
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
You: is it worth it?
Stranger: sorry?!
You: let me work it.
You: i'll put my thang down, flip it and reverse it
Stranger: ja
You: it's yerfrempenniffers whet nyet cmon
Stranger: THE KETCHUP SONG
You: ...
You: IILLLL A CANTAAAA...... I SAID A HEH
You: HAH
You: DE HEH
Stranger: HEEEEH
You: AHEMME SEE YOU NO A MMMAAAA HAMMY
Stranger: HARRY?!
You: AMMMMAAA YOUSSEE AMMMA BAAAABBBABABAAA SEEE
You: LAS KETCHUP WERE LOL
You: ... mudkip.
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

For those who have successfully suppressed the memory… The Ketchup Song:

… Amazing.

Connecting to server...
Looking for someone you can chat with. Hang on.
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
Stranger: hiyyyya
You: is it worth it?
You: let me work it
Stranger: maybe hehe!
You: ill put my thang down
You: flip it and
Stranger: revferse it
You: YES
You: OMFG
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

This is horribly addictive…

Connecting to server...
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
Stranger: hi
You: is it worth it?
Stranger: sure is
You: let me work it
Stranger: go to it
You: i'll put my thang down, flip it and reverse it.
Stranger: keep going
You: it'syourfrempennifferswhetyet common
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

Arrgh! Fail. Back to manuscript… I’ll try again tomorrow. I will get to the verse, even if it’s the last thing I do…