listening to: skin of the night - m83.
reading: how to be a woman - caitlin moran. (not how it sounds)
watching: the screen.
eating: nothing.
drinking: diet lemonade.
it has been a long-long-time-ago since i've written where everyone can see it.
i just graduated high school, and time already seems to have lost a lot of it's potential authority it could've had over me.
i still sit at home and mix different kinds of leaf beverages with the green leaf, i still sit at my desk and hyperfocus on my tiny handwriting about ancient cretan orgies and i still sing the same array of death cab songs in the shower.
i've found that, due to an unspeakable amount of evidence, the only thing preventing me from feeling comfortable in my skin is the lost treasure that was my sass. the "sass" is a juxtaposition. it's invisible, but it packs a wallop.
you told me you drank beers with him, and kissed him on the rooftops. i was all too familiar of the situation two years ago, when that same boy walked me home, trumpet in hand, and apologised for not being able to have a thing with me.
i never knew his reasoning, but given he swung both ways, that perhaps it was a male kind of time.
the former me would've probably shoved my foot in your ass and told you to take a hike, and come back when you decide that dangling your superiority complex -and slyly throwing your manipulative swings at my only insecurity- were deadbread. and would've promptly fucked off.
now i lie in the middle of the double bed, reading books on feminism, watching ted mosey on my screen, and in my diehard loving way, fantasise about him fighting my battles then resuming work of an architectural kind.
i sit in the wake of a trail of destruction, thinking how carefree i once was, and how in tune with myself i really am.
it's hard leading a double life, and someday (possibly even now) i may come to regret it.
though there is still hope! i found myself trailing around at an open day, all on my lonesome, my '70s woodstock-love-child shirt on, and my scuffed docs, next to a bunch of sniggering sycophants that decided the girl in front of me wearing the jimmy morrison shirt with his penis out was, as i recall "totally gross".
i find it amusing how women like this subject themselves to the tireless, meticulous art of predictability, when all this girl was doing, was proving a controversial moment in pop culture of her idol. i told the pretentious girl this, whose vocabulary didn't span past "debit or credit?" and who probably didn't know what "controversial" meant.
"yah, but like, fat girls shouldn't wear t-shirts like that, because -looks me up and down- it's totally gross."
hm. profound statement. not.
"girl, i'm fat because every time i screw your dad, he feeds me a biscuit."
her look of shock and disgust quickly overtook the rest of her face, as she fought the silence ringing in her ears.
clearly giving up, she walked off. and so in that moment, my heart lilted, and a smile crept across my "bitch" face, as the realisation sunk in that i was still morgan, and that i didn't have that far to go to retrieve the sarcastic whiplash i possessed before i turned into a pawn-of-the-system.
no turning back.
