I need to dance to Le Tigre in a living room with my coterie of wisecracking, brilliant Californian gay men and equally sassy, wise, incredible Californian ladies.

I need new sheets.

I need to go outside and, channeling my inner two year old, run around and around and around in wide, frenetic circles, my hands flapping and limp, pausing occasionally to impersonate a pony or a giraffe.

I need a pack of cloves, a large shady tree, a cafe and a pile of books and appropriate magazines.

I need an eyebrow wax.

I need to make a bonfire of 'Catcher in the Rye,' 'On The Road,' anything written by Charles Bukowski, and the complete works of DH Lawrence and dance about it with my ladies, our eyes glittering with bloodthirsty glee.

I need to go to the shore of one of Canberra's big, antiseptic lakes and do cartwheel after cartwheel in the manicured grass.

I need to punch shit.

I need to get delicately wasted with Mr Berian at the Wig & Pen and flip coasters until they kick us out.

I need one of those Korean ice creams that looks like a fish.

I need a puppy.