I don’t really care what else happens in a day, every full day that I don’t have bouffant hair and pants on, just doesn’t work out for real.
Spraz: GOODBYE COLLEGE! (grandly salutes glass building and retreating backs of mean friendtances) …THANKS FOR ALL THE FISH.
Me: Hold on… What did you just say?
I recently picked out the following firsts:
S B L I T
I can’t stand bits of my life…
But on a different key, I’m excited to be gaining proper employment soon. My days are otherwise just spent on the internet, and like so.
Top to bottom: Ya on a sulk, amazing soda, me looking stern, and I don’t know why someone took a picture of a man in pain but I spotted it.
Wolfgang Cooper Wood Russell of the Blackfoot
First Olivetti now this. I can’t even live.
S: We had better guard The Suitcase with our lives. You know, THE suitcase.
Me: I think we have to BURY it.
Ohhh my god my mum disposed of my favourite structured leather bag without my consent. It survived Laneway’s rain with me, and Dad bought it out of sg over a decade ago. I no longer wish to live. This is too much.
Amidst all of life’s ups and downs, journaling remains somewhat close to the quick of my soul. Is this “real writing” though? I suppose it could be, if people liked it.
Anyhoo, I’ve just seen Killing Bono (2011). It was immensely immensely funny.
We’re future sailors
Tell me what you dream of
As we make the seamless transition from National Poetry Month to Mental Health Awareness Month, here’s a relevant video poem, by artist Jorge Colombo and me.