It's really hard to sort of type and simultaneously transcribe my inner monologue and general experiences on my phone because it's such a piece of shit.

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Like, the screen is all smashed now, and it's got these lines running through it, and sometimes it just flashes green and it won't stop.

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In a way it's kind of good though, because it's like a deterrent to not using my phone, because, like, I am genuinely so brainwashed by the hyper-stimulation I can access at all times, that I need the device I'm using to stop working to get me off it.

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And sometimes I just stare at the green flashing lights hoping they'll go away, and then I'm like, what if I have a seizure?

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I was thinking in the bath the other night, like, what would happen if I just held my head underwater for a really long time? Like, would I actually die, or would my body just bring me back because it would fight so hard?

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I started reading this sort of blog exposé about the Vice article on all these famous women in literature who had committed suicide. It was basically a fashion piece where they recreated their suicides, but styled in Philosophy di Alberta Ferretti, Mercibeaucoup and See by Chloé, all very 2008 bohemian adjacent brands (also Monday’s shoot theme hmmm).

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I thought it was quite well done, and I don't really like when people say things are ‘inappropriate’ because, I mean, really, who gives a fuck? People are so offended all the time.

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It's, like, crazy. I feel like I've never been offended. Maybe there's a part of my brain that misses the reaction that elicits offence. I mean, I know I need to explore this a lot more. It's all very, very weird to me, being ‘offended’.

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Anyway, my phone got, like, super mega smashed. I don't even know how, but I just woke up to it the next day.

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This was on Sunday just past, after I'd gone to the Newry and then a party with Jazzy and Bess and Lachie and a few of their friends, and I lost my jumper and my mum's wool socks, and I woke up gasping, not knowing where I was or what happened, which is quite fun and I enjoy the confused adrenaline because it’s a welcome change to my baseline apathy.

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I almost always black out after drinking; even after 4 drinks, I start getting hazy and often lose my phone, ID, bag, clothes. I once reported my bag as STOLEN to the north melb police when I had actually just left it sitting at the bar a street down for 3 days like a moron.

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Instead of trying to find it, I just started rebuying everything I remembered was in it, like the Estée Lauder lipstick Jazzy gave me and the giant silver glitter clip that someone left at my housewarming. All I remember thinking was, THANK GOD my Mason Pearson boar-bristle hairbrush and my teddy bear, Buddy, weren’t in my bag - because I do bring them around at times.

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But I had grazed my knee really bad, I'd skinned both my elbows, and I literally remember nothing.

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In a way, it makes me feel really powerful. Like, I could do absolutely anything if I just didn't remember it the next day.

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I mean, I have done things where I've just, like, made myself drunk so I wouldn't have to remember, but you know what I mean?

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I'm definitely gonna look into consciousness, or the idea of consciousness.

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I remember in high school, like in psychology, looking at the spectrum of, like, I guess it's, like, comatose, death, conscious, semi-conscious, anesthetised, hyper-aware.

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There's, like, these different planes of sentience.

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I'm gonna have to find that diagram.

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Ok, the correct hierarchy is: focused attention, normal wakefulness, daydreaming, meditative state, hypnotised, asleep, anesthetised, unconscious (coma), complete lack of awareness.

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Some car parked out by my house is playing Riptide so damn loud the car is reverberating, and an Irish guy is tweaking out of his mind, calling everyone in the street “devil whores”. I’m looking at the Pancake Parlour menu because I’m so hungry and there’s no food.

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At 10.30 I will walk to Lygon St and meet Robbie for another martini and some food, hopefully. He gets a staff discount, and we will walk past our old house at 2 Cochrane Place, which I miss beyond comprehension.

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I'm wearing this lovely see-through top I bought in Amsterdam but, like, not see-through enough where it would be dangerous to wear out at night; however, walking down Lygon Street from the city end was not a good idea… especially in these vintage Levi's which hug my bum in a way which one could only manifest in a dream.

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A man with a cigarette in his mouth who was very, very tall for someone who looked so old leaned into me as at the same time we walked past and blew his cigarette smoke in my face while simultaneously grunting, “nice tits”. I had my headphones in, so I just pretended not to hear him, and he seemed sufficiently satisfied and went on his way. It's an odd comment to make to someone who has such small breasts, but really it's about the gratification of making someone vulnerable, I know. Not even 30 seconds later, a man sitting out the front of the TAB practically lunges out of his seat towards me and yells “nice!”, and then immediately falls back into his chair and turns to his friend and they laugh.

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‘Nice’ seems to be a word of real favour. I think the word ‘nice’ is just nice. My phone AutoCorrects the word ‘nice’ to ‘bice’, which translates to bite. A word that is used, according to the pattern recognition of my phone, more than ‘nice’.

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While I wait, I read the comment section under Christina Aguilera - Beautiful (Official HD Video). @mobilegamespleys says, ‘I’m a gay guy in a Muslim family. This music video is one of my favourites, along with Born This Way. I know this message will probably be seen by no one, but to everyone who does see this, I want you to know that you are beautiful…’ I feel good reading this.

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I nibble on an assortment of pickled giardiniera mix and sip the worst beer I've ever had™ because the bartender said I'm better off getting a pint instead of the Peroni I asked for, and just wouldn't take no for an answer. The martini was $22 and I just couldn’t justify using my own money on it and I was feeling vulnerable. Giardiniera translates to ‘female gardener’ .

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He, like the street screamer, was Irish, and I will not state the name of the establishment because I actually like it and used to be a regular and wouldn't mind being one again, but what a pompous cunt.

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I read a bit about Zelda Fitzgerald and ‘The Hooded Man’ image, and I feel overwhelmed by how many images and words and timelines and places exist. I feel overwhelmed by this so often that I feel like I can't cope, and it makes me depressed. There are too many hours in a day and too many potential thoughts and choices. What a privilege to think this, a vile privilege. I do hate the modern world, though, and often think about it pessimistically. I like the book The Beautiful and the Damned - it is 104 years old and still relatable.

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Robbie is now done with work, and he concedes that the beer I’m drinking is kinda shit, but beer is beer, hey? These American women sitting next to us just stare into the back of my head, and I can feel it. They are waiting under the warmth of the heat lamps for an Uber, and they were here for the NFL. I want to turn around and say “back the fuck up”.

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The next day I go to my 11 am job interview, and before I go, I eat Coles chocolate mudcake off a butter knife for breakfast. This is my favourite food ritual because it feels like I am consuming fewer calories, and also the small portions I chew into slop will equate to less bloating I believe baselessly; I have done this ritual forever. When I say forever, it means I cannot remember a time I didn't do it. I think forever is a past participle, so I think it doesn't make sense to say, like, “I love you forever”; you’d say, “I’ve loved you forever and love you deeply now and likely tomorrow”, and so forth.

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I like writing in this autobiographical, diaristic manner because I'm never worried about forgetting something. I'm writing in the way I talk, and I'm not concerned about structuring it, or maintaining consistency with the grammatical conventions, or using the most intelligent word, or ‘lexeme’. To a degree, it's often just a relay of my stream of consciousness and whatever else has been playing on my mind. I'm never a ruminator, but instead very determined, and when I want something, I'll think over and over and over about it until I have it. I guess that is ruminating. So I know I'll never forget something that I'm interested in transcribing. Whew.

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I achieve, so I am. I fulfill dreams, so I do. I love and therefore I am loved, and further extend grace.

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