No. 3

I’m going to start taking photos of shit. Beautiful people with mad ass talent because sometimes words just don’t cut it and I’m feeling creatively frustrated!!!!!! I want to use my hands for something other than typing and touching myself – mmmm, you feel me? I’m also feeling really stale in Sydney. Way too hot and not enough love. I’m also having serious remorse for not having taken photos of people in Japan with a proper film camera. I’ve gotta stop thinking I’m not good enough, not creative enough! I’m going to go and sit in Newtown taking photos of people this coming week, wish me luck. Here’s some of my favourite photographs by photographers I’ve only recently discovered. People are so fucking cool, Imma rookieeeee. I’m listening to Erykah Badu, feeling inspired rn.

Photography by Tyler Mitchell

 

Photography by Dakota Gordon

 

Photography by Harley Weir

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No. 2

A vignette about a boy I dated just to pass the time…try to not do that! 

I feel like all we do is talk about you. Can I tell you a little bit about me? Fine, let me tell you a little bit about you. You should probably know you’re an alcoholic. But I like the way your breath tastes after your 18th beer, more than I like your regular breath so let’s not talk about it actually. The only time I liked you was that night you face planted like a moron into the floor and split your nose open. Yes – I’ve only liked you when you’ve been drunk, It’s the only time you have some kind of presence.

I wish you would shower before you came to bed, and you’d be more proactive about the staph infection growing on your chin. Hate that you drunkly chucked my uneaten Chinese food in the bin because you had a sudden urge to eat me out. Hate even more that I’m sober and watching you try to eat me out. Seriously tragic. Please find my clit soon. Even better that you have fallen asleep whilst eating me out. I’m a lucky girl. You should have just eaten the fucking Chinese, baby.

Out of curiosity, when did you last wash your balls? I melted into your shitty bed that time you told me I was beautiful because I knew you mean’t it. Why did I hate myself when you said that? I stopped telling you stories because you don’t listen to me. That’s ok, I don’t listen to myself either. I want to eat your mum out.

I’m going to ask you if you slept with that blonde girl while I was away, I thought you didn’t like blondes? More baffled you went with a blonde, than the actual fact you went with another girl. Please fuck all the girls you can, your loyalty is not my top priority and my pussy is wrecked.

Hope you get chlamydia. Hope I get chlamydia so I can say you gave me chlamydia. Concerned your friends think I fit into your ‘dark features’ girlfriend aesthetic, so what’s with the blonde chick!? I’ll take my clothes off if it means feeling some kind of intimacy with you. Fuck it, I’m definitely taking my clothes off – this silence is distressing.

Why the fuck do you always trip over your right foot? It makes you unreliable. You are unreliable, full stop. And now I’m unreliable because you don’t deserve it any other way. Please help, you make me feel so lonely. It upsets me the way you hate pasta al dente and the way you detest salt. Your obsession with chilli sauces is the only respectable thing about you.

Oops, sorry about that bitch message I sent you from New York- it came as a shock even to me, I was having a good day as far as I knew. I’m not usually like this but you’re so fucking arrogant it sucks. Work on yourself. I need to work on myself. Why do you pout like that? and stop chewing so aggressively, it kills me to watch you. I can tell you’re hiding a secret, it’s no fucking secret.

I sometimes pretend you’re that hot samurai out of Mulan when we are fucking. Sorry the pessarie thrush treatment I inserted into my vagina that day dissolved all over your dick upon penetration. That must have been confronting for you. I lied when I said I liked your favourite pizza topped with mayonnaise, it’s so fucked up.

Sorry I had what looked like a miscarriage all over your fresh sheets. Thanks for leaving a tampon in the bathroom, that was pretty decent of you. Please tell me one more time how great your cum tastes, I don’t think I heard you the first dozen times.

I hate you SO much but please text me.

This is exceptional fried chicken, thanks. I’m breaking up with you. You’re breaking up with me? I apologise for saying I love you too, what I mean’t to say was thanks for loving me. Hate that you think I came every time. I’m sorry I never wanted to be with you and did nothing about it. Wish I did something about it. I’ve done some research on your kind. You need medication, they say.

I can’t bring myself to open that Bruce Springsteen book you bought me in hospital. Or read that valentines card tucked between its pages. I fucked you three weeks out from my pancreatic surgery just because I couldn’t say no. I had a river of blood coming out of my asshole afterwards. You could have at least been gentle. I should have noticed then that you didn’t care.

I wonder if you think of me when you play that Dirty Dancing vinyl I bought you and if you play the same Talking Heads record with your new girl. I wonder if she melts into your bed every time you tell her she’s beautiful. That night my stitches tore because you’d had too much to drink was disappointing. You passed out cold when you got to bed and I sat there crying. I was in pain but I was crying for you. You must be missing something, you must realise you’re not quite there. You’re blank.

I can be funny, why don’t you ever say I’m funny?  You never did have any urgency. And everyone said you were dumb, but I was jaded by the thought of how good you could be. And your job isn’t that bad, but I’m not going to tell you how to feel. I’d hate to hear myself tell you how to feel. I don’t really feel like doing this with you. And it was out of my character to fall asleep on the phone to you. Especially whilst talking dirty to you. I still can’t believe I did that. I was boring myself. I want to hear about the first time you fell in love, but I don’t like the way you talk about women. I wonder how you talk about me. Who am I kidding, you don’t talk about me. You don’t even know me. Did you maybe want to get to know me?

No. 1

A vignette about judgemental motherfuckers who just don’t get me…

Did they tell you that it would get better? That those nights filled with insomnia would eventually give it a rest, give you a rest. That you’d stop questioning what it’s all about, what you’re all about. That the hollow pit in your belly would stitch itself up. That nauseating feeling in your stomach will transcend. You will transcend. They didn’t tell you that did they? They never noticed. You feel so empty. You shouldn’t feel so empty, they said. It’s not normal you feel this empty.

I feel so fucking empty. So frustrated. I’m stuck in a cul-de-sac. That should be the name of a salad. The cul-de-sac salad. Ugh, salad. They didn’t listen, how painful that no one listens. And when people listen, they don’t understand. And when they don’t understand, they judge. Everyone specialises in what should be. Everyone forgets they don’t know, everyone forgets they’re flawed. And I’ve been informed to care what those motherfuckers think. Motherfuckers.

I care too much. I think too much. Thoughts can kill your soul, didn’t they tell you that? Even when you’re aware of them, thoughts become like quick sand. All you can do is sink. Let it take you, let them have you. Don’t forget your roots. Don’t forget the sacrifice. You are like your father, they said. Change that, they said. Don’t forget you are broken. And you want your freedom? Don’t forget we own you. They should have told you that you know yourself, you know yourself until you really don’t know yourself at all. And tomorrow will be your today if you stay in this place. If you stay in this place, it will stay the same.

And I want to tell you everything, but they told me to never lose my mystery. Forget being desirous if you lose your mystery, they said. Don’t love without security. You need comfortability, they said. Love will fade, and the life you want will slip through your olive coloured fingers. Don’t forget you are olive. Don’t forget you come from a better place than them. Don’t be attached, that’s not what we do. Follow your head, not your heart. Don’t get caught up in love. Stop falling. Stop fucking falling. A real man pays the bills, they said. Let him pay the bills. Don’t let people put you down, they said. You can’t buy back your reputation, they said. Care about your reputation. Hypocrisy.

But all I care about is life slipping away. Do something about it, make yourself do something about it. And your freedom isn’t important. Let us destroy your privacy. Let us keep you from the wild shit. And don’t make eye contact with him, they said. He only wants to breathe in what’s between your thighs, they said. I want him between my thighs, didn’t I tell you that? Be a woman, they said. Be strong, be powerful. Suppress your eroticism. Pull it down, cover it up. Take care of yourself. Be desirable, but don’t give in. Don’t give it up. Let them chase you, just don’t look behind you. If the bastard catches up to you, remember he still doesn’t deserve you.

You are special, they said. You’re not special, they should have said. Exhausting. They drown themselves in liquor, and I’m here sober. Everyone is so vacant, or maybe I’m vacant. Maybe I’m not quite there. Maybe I’m not here. And maybe this fog has changed me. Maybe I was once different. Maybe I was better, maybe I was less conscious. Consciousness could kill. Did they tell you they want what’s best for you? And when you tell them what’s best for you, they roll their eyes. My heart breaks when they roll their eyes. This is me, I said. It can’t be, they said. Let me be me, please.

It’s 3am and I’m sitting in front of my webcam, legs spread wide apart. I’m not listening to them. I’m naked. I’m letting him look at me, he likes to look at me. Even across oceans, he still wants to look at me. He’s touching himself. I’m touching myself. I’m dripping out onto my fresh linen. I can smell myself. I smell like a woman. He tells me I’m beautiful. Not in the way that they tell me I’m beautiful. Their beautiful is perfect.

The beautiful you’ve told me to be is vanilla. How sad to make a woman try and be vanilla.