It is now a month since I returned to Australia. The desire for travel to strange and exotic lands has subsided, for a while. I have caught up with family and friends and cleared my lungs of Asian pollution.
The other day, the Brisbane River broke its banks and proved, once again, that it pays to live on high ground when your whole city is in a flood plain. That might seem logical, but humans have a knack for avoiding logic or forgetting it entirely for years at a time. I know this personally.
I have decided to change careers and become a real estate agent. (Control your sickening urge to yodel your breakfast into the nearby bushes.) I know, I know. Many people loathe real estate agents, for a whole variety of good reasons. However, I'm not going to earn my Porsche by hanging around with Eurotypical holidaymakers on a beach in the sub-continent, so I've decided to yuppify my existence for a few years and go ape in the real estate caper. I might even wear a suit and clean my car regularly.
One thing's for sure: either I'll make a fortune or I won't. Either way, I still want a Porsche.
Alias: Frank Satyr
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