I just found one of your hair on my hoodie. I haven’t seen you since I washed this. It stuck through the washing machine. It stayed while it was hanging on the line. It stuck in my overnight bag. And it stuck until at 3:35pm on a Monday I saw it & pulled it from my clothes.

It’s curled up and red. It had 2 knots in it. I tried to undo the knots & I broke the hair. Now there’s a smaller spiraled section – with a knot in – and a longer piece that makes curls that look like the golden ratio diagram.

I wonder how long it will take until I no longer find your hair on me, in my house. I wonder why it broke when I tried to undo the knot. Why couldn’t I fix it without breaking it. Why did the smaller part curl up so tightly into itself?

I should probably just wipe them off my desk or put them in the bin.

Instead the 2 pieces are lying on my desk, between my hands as I work.

The window

*disclaimer: I’m perfectly fine, I promise*

It’s a window that brings happiness to my room – crashing waves & laughing children.

It’s a narrow slit of a window but I can probably fit through it, taking care not to fall.

As I step through I’d flash back to the days in London where I’d slip under a sliding window and dangle my feet, while reading a book, 4 stories up. No one ever saw me.

They won’t see me here either. I’ll stand on the ledge – this one is almost a balcony without a railing – not the 20cm space I sat on in London. And the height would be pretty daunting. I’d probably sit down. Dangle my feet, trying to remember why I did it. I will hear children laughing and wonder why I stopped. I’d see the people on their phones and holding hands and walking together and I’d wonder why I always walk alone.

And I would be far from home so none of those who still care would see me, or have to find me.

I’d leave a note saying that I’m tired and tired of being lonely. My writing would be neat, my confidence would be in the tidy slant, the equidistant letters.

I’d leave a note apologising to the people who’d find me. I always try to be considerate.

And I would slip off the ledge. I’d fly at last, I’d feel freedom until I no longer feel.

I wonder if I would stay silent?
So the only sound would be the slap of my clothes on my body?
Would everything be quiet?

Would I remember one last thing I wanted to do? Or would I be grateful that I ticked this one off at last?

And when I hit the ground, would I split open on the places my skin has broken before? Or would I find new ways to break out of this skin that never really felt like mine?

Would cars block the street and people complain about the hold up? Would they feel momentarily guilty for complaining or would they deem me inconsiderate one last time?

Would my mom remember that I don’t want a church service? And would she think of asking my friend Charlene to do the talking? Would anyone but my close family come?

How long would it take for everyone who once cared to find out that I was gone? Would anyone wish they had called just one last time? Wish that I had asked for help? Would they call it a waste or would they call me selfish or that this was what I had always wanted?

But none of this will happen. I will wait for daylight one more time. Wait for the sun to fight back the dark thoughts. I will remind myself that the thoughts are irrational, that they are probably just hormonal and that it will get better.

And in the morning I will smile at the strangers, listen to the laughing children and wonder how it ever felt so bad.

I firmly close the window and turn the air conditioning on instead. Fresh air can kill you know.

Petty pretty pretty

So, a friend posted this image on twitter:


I responded with “good thing I’m not pretty or beautiful ;)” and then someone else did the whole “don’t make me come over there” bullshit.

I was a little pissed off. I don’t care about being pretty or beautiful. I generally hate the word ‘pretty’ anyway but if you want to call me beautiful I’d much rather it be about ALL of me than my appearance. I wasn’t trying to put myself down, I’m quite happily average in appearance.

Would I like to be a bit slimmer? Yes. Would I like my skin to look less than that of a 16 year old? Yes.  Do I care about either of those things to change them? Apparently not.

The insecurities I have & try to fix are not about my appearance. I’m always a little amazed at the women I’ve managed to date. I always think they are the most beautiful people I know and they’re so beautiful because I know all of the parts that make them beautiful. Their compassion, their minds, their sense of adventure and yes, their physical beauty. And I know I got to date these women regardless of my appearance, they saw something in me too. And the relationships certainly didn’t fail because of the way I looked.

I had a conversation with my mom yesterday about how grateful I am that she taught us that it’s ok to not always win & that we didn’t always have to be the best. I really believe there’s a shit load of issues in the world because people always think they have to be the best.

Why do I have to be beautiful or pretty? I am incredibly grateful for my brain, for having compassion, for having & being able to do a job I love. I also have awesome hair.

Anyway, I kind of think that we should compliment people on things other than their general appearance. If you think someone has great hair, say it. If you think someone has a beautiful brain, say that too. But pretending we’re all conventionally beautiful is bullshit. That there is beauty in all of us, is a complete different, and very true story…


Have you ever been in a desolate place? A desert, a forest, an empty beach. The kind of place where you can scream and no human will hear you. The kind of place where the only thing man made is you. You and all the things you choose to carry around.

Do you scream?

You’re not

My fingers are thick and stupid. The small silver ring digs deeper into flesh. The catch at an impossible angle. I remember this used to be easy? How did I forget? How did my fingers forget. I move to the mirror. The bumps and dark spots mocking. 33. You can’t keep your face clear and you can’t get a stupid little silver earring out of your ear. You just HAD to open the hole, prodding at something that should have been left well alone. You’re probably going to have a puss filled earlobe soon. Frustrated I dig my fingers deep into the tiny space where the catch is. Let it fucking bleed if it must. It hurts, the skin is tender. The catch yields. You’re not a girl. You just shouldn’t even try.