Listening to Red Scare and I think they’re like a girl version of an incel.
What would that be? Hamish and I want to coin that term when we come up with it. We must have been on the same frequency this morning. Today I was texting someone important to me. Not Hamish. I told him I’ve had nothing to say to him. I said enough on the night of my 22nd birthday.
The day after my birthday. I answered the phone with a groan. I’m wearing my “fuck me pumps” and a long white cotton dress that has pockets. I bought it in Brooklyn. I just got it back. Because I managed to leave it in Brooklyn. Thinking about people thinking that I must’ve just escaped from the mental asylum. We drove to N Lee Bakery to grab a Bahn mi. Hamish ordered a tofu one. I asked him why he was such a good person? We ate it on the grass outside of my house. We said about three words to one another.
It’s been a week since then, and I’m getting closer and closer to the realisation that I’m grieving. For the loss of a boyfriend. One I had for two years. For the loss of my unconventionally conventional schedule. One that I was so close to wrapping my head around. For the loss of my pilling layer of skin. One that has been worn and washed many times.
I’ve been online shopping. For new things to go along with my new clothes. I’m trying to take care of this new layer of skin. That will creep up on me speedily. I’m making a whole new nest.
I’m awaiting rejuvenating oils, silk bed sheets, new knickers to feel pretty in. And as I type this I’m realising that I’m currently ruminating in my last bit of filth. There’s ash in my bed. Dying flowers on the shelf. Smudges of Vegemite on my T-shirt. It’s glorious.Return to issues