The other night I had the strangest dream. My hair was cut short, but I carried myself as if it were long, like I do now. And I was near every man I've ever met. And then there was I, and then there were perhaps two other girls that I cannot recognise now. And we were in what was known as the ‘darkness room’. It was a padded sunken lounge, padded walls, padded roof, all covered in navy velvet. There was a shallow ceiling. It was as if we were in a sound booth, or a pod, a simulation of being deep underwater. I know something was expected of me, an exchange, an exchange of what…sex and what? I'm not sure. I think there was money on the floor of this padded room, green plastic sprinkles, and I’m starving. I know I knew everyone in there. I didn't know them all sexually, though, and I almost felt liberated, empowered. I wanted to be fucked, and I wanted these people to fuck me back, not all of them hard. Everything was beautiful and tender. The girls and I didn't really speak. It almost seemed they weren't there, and it was just me alone. I understood I was working for someone, but who, I'm not sure, a woman, I believe it was. I suppose she's a madam.

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These boys had long eyelashes and beautiful blue eyes, hair to their shoulders, and some of them had buzzed, tattoos or not, I didn’t care, little scars on their faces, freckles on their noses. And I controlled them, sometimes with my battledore. And I didn't want to leave this dream, and I wasn't scared at all. I loved them tenderly, almost like a mother, but all I can remember is sort of writhing on this padded floor. Something was so erotic about it all. And they were scared to touch me. I was the pièce montées on this plush velvet cake. And by daylight, the cake would be tossed, the boys would go back home, and I would awaken to the sun. 

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This morning, it's just me at home. There are no signs of life in the house, much to my pleasure. I theatrically slump onto the balustrade as I go downstairs to the kitchen. The chequered linoleum is freezing. In fact, the whole house is freezing, it always is, and sometimes I spend hours, days at a time, lying in my bed just to keep warm, creating insulation in my sheets. As always in the mornings and in the evenings, my lips and nose grow a hue of violet, my fingers stiff and red. My ring often becomes loose because of my contracted, slippery skin and falls off, ricocheting off the floor and under some appliance or immovable fixture of the house. I potter around in the kitchen barefoot, scooping coffee into a percolator, eating old, stale pancakes that have been wrapped individually in plastic wrap and thrown into the refrigerator. 

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My shelf is the very bottom one. I stare through the kitchen window as my coffee brews, out into the filthy courtyard that is never swept after parties and is littered with clothes thrown from the washing line, and stare at the giant octopus mural in front of me. It was already painted when we moved into the house, and it features not just an octopus, but a myriad of aquatic creatures, some of whom are smoking pipes and some of whom have lost the battle of time and only a gill, tail, or fin remains. The only colours used are green, aqua, and orange, and had it not been so faded, it would be totally jarring on the eyes. As I stare deeply into this octopus, I let myself become lost in the reverie of last night's dream and my own perpetual yearning. 

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1 x Escitalopram, 2 x Ibuprofen, 2 x Diazepam, tick, tick, go upstairs, release fascia, breathe, Yoga by Adriene™ tells me, breathhhhaaaa, and yesyesyes leannnn into a nice supine stretch. Does Yoga by Adriene™ have children? Is Yoga by Adriene™ a bitch? Consider my fascia stretched and synovial fluid circulated, and now it is time to manically scrub my body over with an abrasive brush and zap my face till it burns with my NūFace to maintain perceived perfection (I fucking LOVE diacritics), I am ALWAYS late to work. Shower-by-proxy by instead sitting at the bottom of the shower and slathering myself in L'Occitane Almond Shower Oil (not mine) and some hair mask that I purchased at a too popular salon while being held at gunpoint. I use my roommate's soap and scrub my nails like a psycho, and then I use her soap to scrub the bath too. Legs up the wall for 5 mins, then walk very slowly to Flagstaff station. Look intentionally crestfallen and brooding all the time, so I am not spoken to in any capacity whatsoever.

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Hop off the train and walk to work through Richmond, where at my desk I listen to Sade to try and feel sexy/strong/rich, but these things are hard to emulate when a UTI is unabashedly burning your vagina, and any minute now I have to tell the tinny voice in my phone that ‘in Australia my voice identifies me’. I get a pittance for my title (galaree mahnahjah), but for the work I actually do, well, then I am metaphorically rolling in it. The louvred window behind my desk lets me spy on the girlies working at Mecca HQ when I so please, and at 1 o'clock, I watch their gaggle walk back to their offices holding edamame and salads in soggy biodegradable bowls and darling boxes of whatever they've been gifted that week for reasons related to KPI, PR, enduring commitment, or expiry date. Half-empty bottles of Dyptique’s Des Hesperides and Tatcha cleansers and Dermalogica scrubs and whatever else you could wish for. For my lunch, I very slowly eat a porridge sachet I make with water out of a mug so I can mentally ‘backlog’ my calories for a huge amount of chocolate or alcohol when I get home, depending on the day of the week (ish). 

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The day goes by excruciatingly slow, I close one tab and open another, reply to an email, and delete the next, pick up the phone, write down details, send off a valuation, and print off a consignment note, sign an invoice, reorganise the stockroom, write didactic text after text after text, update an artist bio, perhaps rehang some works in the salon. Sometimes I wrap my coat around my head and spin very fast in the middle of the room, like Bram Stoker's Dracula, if he wore a DKNY velvet trench coat off eBay and was a 21-year-old woman. I want to suck your blood because I am anaemic. I often find myself thinking this would all be a lot easier if I were just allowed to smoke at my desk, as they did in the 70s. Why did they ever get rid of that? Surely not for its increase in lackadaisical attitudes in workers. 

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I play music from the big Mac desktop computer, typically Joni Mitchell or the Deep Cuts album by The Knife, or sometimes I'll listen to Klassik Radio. When I first started working here, I used to be terrified of someone coming in while I had my feet up or the music playing, but I've totally let go of this restrictive attitude and have adopted a more laissez-faire style of working. Now, when a client comes in to pick up a work or oogle at what show is on, I merely just curate the ambience via playing whatever music I fancy. 

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On opening nights, I shed the skin of being an icy bitch and became everyone's darling doll, handing out catalogues, entertaining utter drivel with pensioners and wealthy women in lavender marriages, and getting pretty fucking drunk off nice wine. By the time the drunkenness hits me, it's already too late, and it is always too late. I've been overly friendly with my boss, Britta, and have to excuse myself to the store/bathroom, where I make wretched faces at myself in the mirror or dramatically fling myself onto the ground and lie there just for a few moments, eagerly awaiting someone to come in and see me. I'm always seeking some sort of thrill, but I like to do it within a controlled environment. 

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Somewhere where someone doesn't have time to ask me questions before I disappear. The space is too sterile for me to have any dreams of a more grandiose nature. Sometimes I find myself relishing these moments, and it's a good thing that the openings are always on a Wednesday, because I don't work evenings on those nights. And the nights I do, a portal opens, and reality is often as bizarre as fiction, and as hilarious and sad as reality. 

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Before I lock up for the day, I sit on the old De’Longhi Dragon heater and sift through all the tabs of research I had open throughout the day. In no particular order, they begin with the search: Teenage parents in the 90s, the Wikipedia page for sprinkles, the Wikipedia page for IPA translated into Dutch, Zeena LeVay child, Satcheen Littlefeather, Joan of Arc, Hagiography of Joan of Arc, À Ma Sœur (2001), Valerie and her Week of Wonders (1970), Belladonna of Sadness (1973), Pinterest, a book on Henry Darger, Amy ‍Carlson (religious leader), and yoga subscription. I guess I was feeling surrealistic, and as I shut off the computer, I felt a sense of anxiety at this disappearing, sacrosanct information.