My voice is all raw and gritty this week. It's raspy of a sexual calibre which can only be exploited to make weak-kneed all the women of the world. I figure it reminiscent of all the most infamous cowboys, smokey tavern musicians, and blue collar studs – but for some reason my buddies keep cracking pre-pubescent boy jokes. I just don't see it. I've been stretching the old vocal chords to the limit the past few days on the job site, over the guitars, out in the bush – but for some reason my little lady keeps telling everyone how loudly I sing along to One Direction in the car. These people apparently exist only to squash my swag.

     I don't have a whole heck of a lot to say, so why don't we take a walk down memory lane. Once upon a time, two young boys were plagued by boredom. Then, seven years later, this photo was sent to me and I laughed.

     I s'pose that's all for now.

     I don't get drunk, I get more British. And I'm still very British. Gather round boys and girls, it's time for half-a-story.

     I launched the Save Travie initiative after he got arrested for attempting to diffuse the fight between She-Monster and The Banshee. While waiting for the police to process my intoxicated request that they release my intoxicated friend, an old Aboriginal woman who smelled like roadkill soaked in rubbing alcohol gave me a bible so that I might rid myself of my demons.

     I haven't slept in twenty-four hours and I'm knackered. What a weekend.

     Today, I count my blessings.

     The always beautiful and ever terrible Kimberly is engaged to be wed. This is the happiest ending I could ever have hoped for our saga, and if my setting up camp ten thousand miles from her grasp was the coffin, then this is surely the nail. Of us, I'm not sure what is left to say that hasn't already been said. The story remains one of those old golden tales that I'll pull out when the barrel begins to run dry because it's a traditional love-turned-horror story and everyone enjoys a train wreck. It's tried and true. The young and innocent boy macks the girl on the third grade playground on a dare and sets in motion an irreversible avalanche of desire. A decade passes before the dreams come true and, in senior year, boy and girl become one in the name of beautiful teenage love. It was destined to last forever, naturally. Six months later my heart was torn from my chest and the story ended there. Except it didn't. Through that twisted cosmic joke, our social network forced us into company all too often and that's where the derailment becomes a slaughter. It's hatred and frustration, words not to utter in front of mothers, fuses and sparks. And when it was all said and done, we'd end up sweaty in the sheets.

     Talk about dysfunctional. I have a very special dislike for that girl, and now she's getting married. I woke up this morning to an email from a friend who thought I might find interest in the good news. Oh, I'm interested. Kim is a psychopath. She's cold, vindictive, soul-devouring. A lunatic, a time bomb, everything that's wrong. She is absolutely, from head to toe, drop dead gorgeous. I'll give her that. The girl is stunning, but inside she's just a bottomless pit of desolation. So the question remains: who's this guy? Who is the poor soul who popped the question and how blinded is he? The last time I saw her was January, 2011. We were releasing hostilities in a fit bedroom passion, as we were prone to doing. She was single. If my calculations are correct, that would mean that Mr. Right has only been around for about a year. A year. One year and they're tying the knot. My first response was when's the baby due? My second response was how much dough's he got in the bank? I then decided that perhaps I should feel sorry for him – for falling into the pit that she surely dug to trap the poor bloke. Maybe he's just a fool. Or maybe he's an awful person as well and they're perfect for one another. I'm feeling like this is about to turn into a rant, so I'll cut myself off. At the end of the day, I have nothing but feelings of joy toward the whole situation. And hilarity. I find the whole thing hilarious.

      I hope they live happily ever after... but I doubt they will.

     We collapsed onto the bed in a fit of smiles. It's a scene replayed time and time again after a night on the town, out in the bush, or back in the yard. As the wee morning hours get on and everyone slowly but surely retires for the night, we trip over one another down the hall toward the bedroom. The walls spin in our intoxication and we fall into the sheets with toothy grins. It's been a good night. I feel like it's been the same story for a beautiful eternity. We hit the pillow and in those precious few moments before either one or the other succumbs to the booze fuelled sleep, we talk. We talk about the week ahead or the week passed. We talk about missing home or we talk about childhood memories. We talk about what we want to name our children or we talk about what we'd keep in our pouches if we were kangaroos. Most times we laugh ourselves to tears, but sometimes she scoots in close with her head on my shoulder and I enjoy a brief period of paradise before I'm lost to Zs.

     I had to ask what the cheeky grin from across the bed was all about, as she bit her lip to hide it. I have the biggest crush on you and I just can't get over it. All I could do was laugh. You have a crush on me? After eight months, you're all butterflies on the playground. Just hearing that had my stomach doing somersaults in giddy love, but I had to ask why. Just 'cause of who you are - I love you. The admission came with a giggle. She loved our romp on the dance floor earlier in the night to I Wanna Dance With Somebody. She loves how invested I get when we're watching Real Housewives on television. She loves when I sing out the Taylor Swift at the top of my lungs as we're driving into town.

She wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts
She's cheer captain and I'm on the bleachers

     I am the image of strong masculinity. I ain't even ashamed. I interjected that she must also be crushin' because of all the money I rake in from my physically laborious job, how sweaty I get after my daily fitness regime, and how many beers I can drink. How buff and imposing and honorable I am. How I could probably wrestle a crocodile if it came down to it. She nodded with an of course to the former, but pointed out that I'm afraid of crocodiles and would subsequently be clever enough to not find myself in a position face-to-face with one. We laughed, as we're prone to doing, and settled in close. I felt like the conversation had lapsed for quite some time because a flurry of ideas flashed through my mind, but in reality I think only a few moments had passed. I looked over to her and I asked, d'you want to go to Vietnam? She said sure.

     With pounding heads the following morning, we planned a trip for August. How about them apples?

     Do you see it? That look of pure, unadulterated understanding in his eyes. This is Komo, a friend of a friend, and he always looks like this. The attentive ears, the wide eyes, the vacant expression. It's because he knows. He knows. In the wild, he's considered prey. And one wrong move will land him in the vast battlefield of the hinterland where only the fittest survive.

      I tell him this every time I see him... which is why I'm not allowed to babysit anymore. I tell the girls – those to whom he runs for protection – that I'm merely trying to toughen him up for the savage realities of life, but really, I'm just trying to break his psyche.