TYPICAL GIRLS

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the lovecats blogspot

She has black eyes. They are honest, uncovered, glossy and alive. When she blinks, her eyelashes track through the air, arching like the moon. You notice that this is just a sliver of all their full, lush possibility . Her exquisite red heart is thick with visceral humanity. Here she is, all illusory perfection and 1000 assumptions. You’re so fucking emotional all the time. Why do you talk so much about nothing? You’ve got nice eyes though. You are a human too, after all. 


Every inch of her ivory skin is masking the ephemeral veins through which the purple blood of her life flows. You want every inch because you're hopeless around her. Greedy. Hungry for the curve in her neck, the plump of her lip, the darkness in her eyes. You want to feel the strands of her hair drift through your fingers. It doesn't feel like a cliche around her. It feels like the most painful bliss you could imagine. When her eyes shut, your stomach is tugged towards her by a thousand knots, each tied to an imperceptible and intangible delicacy, which hangs around her respiring body. She is a beacon of scintillating light in endless black shadow. You are illuminated by her, and it's agony.

A VERY SOBER WEEK

When your social life revolves around two main food groups - coffee and alcohol - it can come as quite a shock when, having given up the latter for a week, one might find oneself sitting around the table, craving that long forgotten entity known as bed rather than craving another gin and soda with friends. I wanted to prove that it was possible, maybe even enjoyable, to spend a night out with friends who were all satisfyingly numb, their minds floating atop the bubbles in their sparkling wine and cider, but I, straight as an arrow in the blinding light of the city, peering into my glass of squash with a rare clarity usually reserved for cinema multiplexes and Ikea. 
The first two days were strange. Working in a bar and not drinking is like working in Topshop naked. When you're the difference between a half-tipsy hipster on a monday night enjoying another $2 pot or him stumbling home to his share house in Fitzroy, it can be quite an effort not to indulge in a cheeky glass of wine post service. It is, undoubtedly, a part of our culture. Dinner? Sure, what are we drinking with these delicious fish tacos? Drink? Sure, red or white? It's just who we are, how we connect, how we relax. 
But I remember a time when tea and a tim-tam had the same sort of relaxing effect on me. When dinner meant the heady scent of bolognese wafting through the house. But we grow up. We indulge in chasing an oblivion wherein which our minds can drift. But what are we running from? Or is it merely habit? Society? In which case, please, let me not conform to this stream of mind-numbing behaviour.
After a few days, I felt cleaner, leaner. Both in mind and body. And then, I got sick. It was like my body thought it would be funny to point out just how cruel I had treated it lately. 'Hey Annie', it would say, 'screw you. Yeah. That's me, your liver. And I'm itchy'. I was forced to stay at home. Contemplate the work ahead of me with a chesty cough and enough tea to satiate Northern England. I even cooked dinner and made dessert for my boyfriend. What? This is not normal behaviour. An apron was worn, floors were cleaned. My house looked clean. My face looked clean. I felt a mixture of contentment and discontent. A weird, almost sober tipsiness induced from a clarity that I hadn't felt for a time longer than I'd like to admit. Suddenly, I noticed the kindness in my best friend's eyes, the sound of my lover's voice. I thought how incredible my mum had been to raise two girls and work full time as an editor. I was in awe of the people around me. No word of a lie. I felt that my brown eyes were suddenly browner, keener, richer for seeing the world clearer.
I am not an alcoholic. I wouldn't say that. No. The world I live in just includes wine. It includes Hendricks. IT INCLUDES REKORDELIG, and, so help me God, I will enjoy those fine drops in this short life. But I think, now, that maybe this life might be longer with a little less liquid confidence and maybe, just maybe, I will make it home before 1am. At least on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. I also quite liked seeing the loves of my life in all their glorious, spectacular lucidity. And that is worth raising a glass to. Cheers.

ABSENTEE

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I know I've been absent lately. I really have no excuse other than my head being under the water for two months. Now that I am back at uni, I think it might stoke some tiny coal that is still warm in the back of my brain, and inspire me to write about life again. In the meantime, I have started a new blog to keep me occupied. I won't leave this one behind, but Issue 23 is more of a sustainable outlet for me right now.

Forgive me, for I forgave you a long time ago.

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