Sometimes I worry that I’m going to run out of stories.

I was at a Christmas party the other night when it occurred to me that maybe I’m not the best conversationalist.

We were less than half an hour in when I was told that I’d already burned through my standard chatting-with-acquaintances-I-know-little-about-and-would-like-to-avoid-offending topics. I’d already asked people in the circle what their favourite colour was and I’d already told the story about the fellow I used to know who lost a tooth at Stereosonic (a festival that featured techno music and attracted a particular demographic of men in singlets who spent a lot of time at the gym). Apparently I’d pulled out those old chestnuts at the pub the weekend before. My bored audience were wary of my tired conversational moves. And they weren’t even showstoppers. I mean, I’d even whipped out the classic “so how about that local sporting team…” line.*

* I did, however, find myself talking about the experience of having head lice as an adult. This isn’t a consolation and, in fact, enforces my hypothesis about my bad conversational skills. 

I’m not sure how it happened, but at 25-years-old I have become someone who recycles their stories at social occasions.

And now that I think about it, that’s a bit of a worry. Because my livelihood kind of relies on my ability to tell fresh stories and have new ideas.

Each week I try to think of something interesting to write up in this hallowed rectangular section of paper and I worry about being repetitive. I mean, there’s only so many different ways you can weave in your conflicting beliefs combining existential nihilism and the overwhelming feeling that you can find meaning in everything. There are only so many vomit stories I can tell. And the “I’m a relatable hot mess of a twenty-something who is completely different to any girl you’ve ever met before and still doesn’t get this whole adult thing” narrative gets stale faster than an uncovered sponge cake. So coming up with something fresh each week can be difficult.

I worry that, eventually, I’ll run out of stories.

And you might say that I already have. I mean, I did a story about vacuuming a few weeks ago. It doesn’t really compare to having gastro at Splendour in the Grass or breaking my wrist after being thrown off a horse. I worry that all my golden material has already been packaged up and milked dry, and all I have left are jokes about my penchant for red wine and lemonade*.

I suppose this is what compels me to do the stupid things I tend to do, such as dressing up as a block of chocolate for a Christmas party. It seems that as a result of my yearning for good yarns, I’m intrinsically driven to humiliate myself. I’m not sure if my subconscious desire to create humorous anecdotes is the path to a happy, fulfilling life but I certainly hope it results in a few interesting tales.

I have to be hopeful that my particular combination of personality traits and love of day drinking will continue to produce experiences I can exploit for literary (I use that word loosely) purposes.

Why, tomorrow I am heading to an event where hundreds of people dress up as Santa and converge on the pubs of Manly. My friend and I plan on going as presents, wearing cumbersome cardboard boxes covered in Christmas wrapping paper. Surely something has to come out of that*.

* As it turns out, it was a marvellous day. I had to come home early because I had to work the next day. I’d learned from last year, when I sneaked away early and took a dip in the ocean in a bid to sober myself up for the ferry home. Unfortunately I went into the water wearing my shoes and clothes and probably got a rash from the sand caught in my damp, cheap Santa pants. 

If so, you may just read about it next week. And if there’s no column in next week’s paper, you can assume that I went a little too far and landed myself in jail. And not that I’m angling to be locked up or anything, but being shoved into the back of a paddy wagon dressed as a Christmas present sure would make for one heck of a story to tell over a few beers.