Boy oh boy, the honeymoon sure is over, ain't it? Remember those delicious weeks at Surfers after the election, Laborists and progressives and radicals in an ocean-view suite, banging one another, then getting an ice cream, then banging again, the waves crashing in the distance. We didn't even get out to see the Elvis show at the casino.
Now look at us. Back in the new flat, back at work, we're starting to learn each other's habits -- Labor stinks out the bathroom, progressives want to keep telling you how their goddamn day went. (Gendered? You're gendered). Despite promises made, Labor has ordered that 30-episode series on WWII it said it wouldn't, and progressives are talking about going back to finish their master's in dance. All of these items have an exact analogue and I could go on. We still love each other -- but three years? Living together? You don't get that for selling meth... well, under a certain weight.
But, hey, this is what we wanted, right? Labor said it would make our dreams come true, now it makes that clicking noise with its mouth every time we buy a bottle of wine. And another thi-