I dare you to find something wrong with yourself, anything. And then compare that part of you to the next person you talk to. Or just happen to glance at.
I always said I’d like to spend days in the airport, just watching [like a creep]. Now that I’m doing that, though, behind a counter. I hate it. People stare at me and I get to see people coming and going to new things and new places and hugging old friends and kissing lovers. Not to mention all the fucking dickheads in suits and ties strutting around asking for double shot flat whites.
“A flat white has a double shot in it anyway.”
Writing inspiration = none. I hate these people. Stop staring at me.
My hair has gotten long enough to wear out and hide behind. MEAN AS. Work in half an hour. Fuck it’s hot in here.
Dirty old town in-fucking-deed you stupid fucking asshole. I don’t care that you’re drunk and probably hideously lonely on the street outside my house. Stop singing, I swear to god, I will drop everything I own on your balding head out of my window until you’re actually DEAD.
All these secure networks, I hate you. All I want to do is update my fucking Tumblr so all these recent people that have decided [against better judgement] to follow me won’t be disappointed. In saying that. They’ll be disappointed anyway because I have nothing at all good to say at the moment. Nothing. I am motivation-less, thought-less. Money-less and lust-less. In the meantime I’m tapping away at Microsoft word like it’s going out of fashion. And it is, by the way. All my friends have Macbooks. Fuck will I be FOREVER out of the loop when it comes to this shit.
I look at you when I’m full and you’re asleep. Not really but your eyes are half closed against conversation and your lips are turned up at the corners like a photo ready to happen. If I had money, I’d have a camera. I spent a lot of this money I don’t have on food for the potluck we’re at. I’m glad you enjoyed it. I hope you wake up later so you can fuck me. In a way I guess I’m looking at you like a prostitute. Not that you’ll ever know how I think.
I am starting to see my legs in a whole different light. They are not tree stumps and yeah, they work. So shut up. I feel rooted to the ground sometimes though. And all of my shoes are so fucked up, one is missing half a sole, the other very close to. All my others are heels that I can’t wear to work. I come home with coffee grounds caked into the webs between my toes. It’s really attractive. I don’t wonder why guys never stick around long.
I’d like to write a story about a troll doll that gets lost in Wellington city. I don’t think many people would get it, it wouldn’t be a childrens story. A prostitute would pick it out of the gutter.
I changed the sign in my window today. Instead of ‘SMILE’ it now says ‘THROW PARTIES NOT STONES’. I have caught people looking at it [me] already. I’m not 100% on their reaction. They probably think I’m a fag. I think I’m a fag. The sign thinks I’m a fag. I planted a sunflower as well. It also thinks I’m a fag.
A txt from my boss at 7:48pm. They made a mistake with my hours. I have to be at the airport at 6:30am. That means I have to be at the bus-stop at 5:50am. This means I have to get up at 4:50am. I may not smile for 24hours.
At a friends house drinking some sort of alcohol. It’s probably $15 a dozen beer. Or red cask wine. Talking about drugs. My friend, who happens to be a necrophiliac [and by the way, YES you WOULD be friends with a necrophiliac, if they announced that they were AFTER you had already come to love them] comments that he’d like to do heroin one day. His reasoning being so that he can tell his kids that he ‘got up to heroin’. I agree. It’s only later that I realise how weird that sounds.
An article in a magazine details a 16 year old getting botox from her mum. I honestly don’t care. Let her do what she wants. What I do care about is the fact that the lines in my forehead now appear bigger. I’m only 19. I want my mum to administer me botox.
After a bottle of wine, skin feels like suede. And it rustles under sheets like dry grass in the wind. I’m stuck remembering the snag of teeth on my neck so many times but so many hours ago. Anyway, i’m parched. Tongue over the roof of my mouth sticks to my gums. I feel ancient, dried up. It’s nice to know I’m not, though. Nice to know I’m not.
Woman at my work, who’s position I’m taking : she says she’s 40 but her hippy-beauty tells me she could be 25 if the slight brackets around her eyes were erased. She’s leaving, criticising management, to paint. I think that’s so cool. I get awkward around eccentric people, and I don’t tell her how in awe of her I am. Instead I wipe coffee grinds on my face by mistake and spend the day with a dirty streak from ear to smiles edge. I serve corporate’s all day long. I know what I look like to them. One day though, I will make more money than they can even dream about. And I won’t have to mention words like tax rebate and economic climate. So I smile at them, big and beaming. Because they don’t know how easy life has and will be for me.