illustraton by Sabine Pieper

Inside. Again. Part of me doesn't care anymore, part of me is furious. There is zero heat in the bathroom and I have to change my towels every other day because they just don't dry.

I need a vacation desperately. I know I am complaining too much these days, but I feel so intensely exhausted. I can't seem to find comfort anywhere. Every day when my thoughts start to wander, I run away - from everyone and everything - and just starting somewhere else. (Yes, yes, it's not terribly original.) I feel as though, if things keep on this way with dad and the cold and money and work, I'm just going to fall apart. I can't find my reserves and it frightens me.

Ages ago I pre-ordered a copy of a new Isabella Blow biography (there are three out this month alone). I thought it would be a nice surprise to have it sent in November when I'd forgotten all about it. (Success, by the way - it had completely slipped my mind.) It was very exciting. C was out for the evening so I had the place to myself. I changed into my warmest, comfiest clothes and my extra-soft moccasin slippers. I got my glasses, put on some tea and settled in for a juicy read. 

"But now she was gone and it would be up to [Philip Treacy and Alexander McQueen] to decide which combination would be the last to adorn her. Some of the items on the rails in her flat were easily discounted. The Givenchy suit with the glowing pinstripes came with a power source to light the stripes, which might explode when it came time to cremate her."

Are you serious? After a "thank you" introduction that reads like the Queen's Christmas card list (and involves no small measure of sycophantic flattery) and pages of "the cast of characters" (the literary version of a film voice-over and a very lazy device), the book opens with some of the most affected, effusive, and awkward prose I've ever read. I didn't get through three pages before I chucked it and turned on the TV.

What the hell is wrong with people? Can we no longer tell a story without editorializing it into some unrecognizable pulp? Isabella Blow is one of the most eccentric and interesting figures of our age. What an incredible decision for a writer to ignore that completely in favour of vulgar toadying and maudlin sentiment.

For shame, Lauren Goldstein Crowe, for shame.

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illustration from a short story entitled "No Girl is Different"

I must have something to prove. I just spent the last few minutes working a ring back into my septum which, miraculously, has not closed over. C is going to hate it, but it couldn't be helped. There is this part of me that feels like the world is swallowing me up - consuming the person I used to be. 

So much of my day demands passivity and patience. All around me are people who've succumbed to expectation, powerlessness and absolute boredom. I watch them eat fast food and listen as they complain about commute times and property taxes. I keep my mouth shut and smile and nod, but rebellion bubbles up in my chest. I will not be you. I know combat boots don't a revolution make, but at least it's something. I need a little more Fuck You in my day. 

I remember when I first got this ring, how sort of shocking it was. I think my parents were worried I'd never be gainfully employed, that it would make me a socio-economic pariah. Once, I stood very still in a drugstore as a very small, old woman marveled and inspected. She even reached out a tentative finger to touch it, as though it was some wonderful alien growth. Now it's nothing at all - an extra bauble, Play Punk. The Beloit College Mindset List states that kids graduating university in the next couple of years have never lived in a time when visible tattoos and piercings weren't acceptable.

Jesus - no wonder I'm freaking out. I'm having a midlife crisis.
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illustration by Amelie Hegardt

I picked analog because I thought it would be gentler. It is absolutely a four-star gold-plated bad idea. It's also done. 

Today is the second day of rain. There's less cliche in it, now that it's December. I confess I like the dim light these last few days. I feel less pressure when everything is grey. Sunshine is demanding.

And I am clearly not up to any challenges.

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