Saturday, August 29, 2015

Up All Night

There's a hole in my tights and Drake in my headphones. Take a shot for me. I wish he wouldn't. 24 floors above my comfy bit of pavement, he's passed out-I presume, after inviting me back a mere hour beforehand. Abandoning a wasted girl at 3AM in the city is strike number one. Fake fur coat covering my shoulders and tears streaming down my face, I still can't force myself to move, to make the forty-five minute walk home in the dark, alone. I'd be angry if I wasn't so exhausted from trying to be what he wants, and deciphering all his weird signals. Friend, flirt, fuck, fun? I was down for whatever but what I wasn't down for was not knowing where I stood. 

The night we had met face to face, a male friend from class stopped by to say hi, and he got shitty. I took that as yet another sign, at the time. 

The next morning I sent him a text saying that I liked him but he'd acted terribly. He asked me out to make up for it. A week later when he brushed me aside, I called his bluff and took a bullet to the gut. 'Pretty cool' but obviously not enough. That was fine. Except we never spoke again.

I can take a smattering of passive aggressive tweets but what I can't take is the callousness, the introduction to your friends that went like 'Miranda, Miranda, Miranda, doesn't she remind you of Miranda.' I'm sorry, I won't be something to fill that gap, I'm not a shoe-in, and I'm not a substitute. I know, she knows, everyone fucking knows, so quit the shady behaviour.

 Incident number two. Seemingly harmless friends arrive in the city and as they leave you turn to me, nodding in their direction. 'I feel bad for her boyfriend, I've fucked her.' Or words to that effect. I'm not sure what you're trying to achieve by changing from flawless, to the fuckboy in the rye. I don't think you're a star player at all. I think you are a chronically hurting person, and I'm sorry that I'm not playing your game of Elizabethtown anymore.

I see right through the bullshit you find at the bottom of a beer can. You can laugh about me to your friends, and leave me nasty voicemails from festivals. But really who is winning at life right now? It well and truly isn't you. xx

Thursday, July 16, 2015

the end is where we start from

You can only stay cooped up, listening to Drake lyrics and sobbing over your fuck-ups for so long. Eventually, you have to consign the 'awful' to the pile of 'great anecdotes', cycle up a few hills, purchase some highlighter with your overdrawn overdraft, and slay the damn demons. With months of regression comes the eventual progression. Your stroppy, hissy-fit throwing younger self will put her subtweets to rest when she realises that the time would be better spent on grinding to Trap Queen against the bedroom mirror.

In a way, this contact sport with your reflection needs to occur. It's about time you made peace with the girl in the mirror. Your feed is filled with proud selfies from Portland, and NYC, and your eyes are too important to waste on the sights of things that drain you of joy.