the forked road .

upon observing a rather attractive female cleaner in the toilets of world square shopping centre today, a very curious question became embedded in my mind.

i would think that even without fantastic english skills, a nice face, long curly hair and a decent rack can probably get a poor girl around five hundred per night, no toilet cleaning or sex involved.

which leads me to my question; would you rather be a stripper or a toilet cleaner?

now consider this hypothetical situation; you have no wealthy background, immigrated rather recently, probably need to pay bills or even school fees to gain an education, and have no real skills or ways of getting hired.

relinquished .

it is so very difficult to move when one has so many possessions. too many clothes, too many hair accessories, too much trash, not enough shoes. when they’re being packed into a box, piece by piece, awaiting the arrival into my next life, i must consider if i want to bring them at all.

consequently, i find myself leaving a lot behind, sometimes to others and sometimes to landfill. when i evacuated my parents’ residence, i gave up my collection of hats and a great number of soft toys. i also overlooked the importance of some of the items i gave up, such as my (very expensive) suitcase and my sleeping bag. but time, rather than need and want, i think, will heal these voids.

hole in the head .

these korean butter waffles are driving me insane. on impluse i bought a box on the way home, and i’ve been home for about 20 minutes devouring more than half the box.

the taste it leaves on my tongue just makes me want to keep eating it. it’s horrible.

i think arnotts or something should pay a couple of million dollars for the recepie and unleash it upon the western world, and then we’ll all be fatter than we were before.

i noticed recently that christmas, in fact, isn’t very far away. it is now the end of october. this year’s hsc will soon be done, uni exams will be finished and everybody’s life is just about to become one long holiday.

the boy .

she gets on and walks over to the seat, careful not to sit on the brown stuff whoever sat there before had left. the way she holds herself makes it obvious that she thinks she’s top shit. she looks at the brown mess (it looks sticky), disgusted, and shifts a little further over. because of this, she ends up right opposite me, and i can’t help but stare for just a second. i look down at my n95 and press a few buttons like there’s something interesting going on.

a jumpy sound catches my attention, but i look down. with my peripheral vision i can see her take out her own phone. it’s pink. she glides her fingers across the touch screen and texts a reply to the message and rolls her eyes. she puts the pink phone back in her bag, but before the message tone sounds again, she removes it, checking, seemingly paranoid.

the cornerstone .

since i was young, i’ve always loved to write. there’s some inexplicable enjoyment in being able to express oneself with words, even if you’re the only one that reads it, over and over again.

i’ve always had so many ideas (mostly copied, i admit), and i wish that i could turn them into a story of my own.

so whenever i was sad, i’d write. whenever i was angry, annoyed, distraught. whenever i felt something. and i came to realise that writing with these emotions made a piece or a story worthwhile.

during my younger years i wrote short stories about little asian girls that hated their parents because they were controlling and never happy.

evidence .

the bloody dagger. the poisoned wine. the sun casting shadows across the floor.

a gun shot.

smoke. footsteps. latex gloves.

silence. plans. shattered glass.

the maid opens the door and screams like there won’t be a tomorrow.

a pile of clothes on the floor.

just dirty laundry?

i don’t think so.

exasperation .

i am currently debating with myself about whether i should go thrifting. this idea has been greatly influenced by aforementioned lookbook, and also the fact that i am poor (truth) and need more clothes (speculative).

although i have attempted to enter charity stores in the past, i generally walk out within a few minutes. it’s probably all about the mindset, and i figured that if i could break free of the other typical ideals from my background, why can’t i let go of this one?

it all comes down to the power of the brain. or the lack of…

heroin .

something i’ve always known about myself is that i like sad things. not in the way that i’m sadistic and enjoy inflicting pain upon others. rather in the way that i have a strange attraction towards novels, sad films, sad poetry and other sad immaterial things.

at many times of my life i have found myself reading a sad novel, crying my eyes out and then hugging it to sleep. devastated by its completion, i will then turn around and read it again, a million times over.

and i fall in love with its pain all over again. i fall in love with the characters as i live vicariously through them and hurt as they do, enjoying every moment. that is the kind of crazy person i am.