Take me back to the Summer of ’99


Provisional drivers licences.

Casual jobs.

Parties with no agro.

Parties with the people you liked the best.

Parties that go on and on and on.

Parties that you never want to end.

Pictures on film.

Op-shop shirts.

Thongs, before they were Havaianas .

Beaded necklaces.

$2 for petrol money.

Hitting top speed at 120.

Loud, tinny speakers.

Staying up late to make a mix-tape.

Port beach or Kiama?

Hot summer days at the beach.


Sweaty summer nights, spent over cool tunes and cold beers.

Movies at the Regent.

The boys. Mates. Friends for life.

The girls. Absolute honeys. I couldn’t of had a better introduction to the female of the species if I tried.

Worried about pimples.

Worried if she likes me.

Not worried about the future.

Not worried about mortgages, career paths or annual reviews.

Fighting for fun, not survival.

Late nights.

Early mornings.

Sleep ins.

Not caring about the Left or Right of things.

Not caring about terrorism or the bomb or ideology.

Not making plans past the weekend.



Crying over the agony of it all.

Laughing over the excitement of it all.

Crying over that lyric that just hits the heart.

Laughing. Laughing. Laughing.

Looking for Alibrandi.

Romeo and Juliet.

Lusting for life.

Being, not supposing to be.

Buying a CD single and having to wait to get back to your parents to listen to it, over and over and over and over again.

Being excited about waking up every morning.

Wondering that it could not possibly get better than this.

Looking out the back-window of my parents car, wondering if I’ll ever have friends like you again.



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