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I spent a lot of time at the train station. Convinced that the girl with a Longchamp bag was in love with me and somehow wanted to buy me. This is what they said
“She wants to buy you”
I don’t know why but I was pleased. She wanted to own me. Along with her expensive luggage.
Today she wouldn’t be my type really. She had long boring middle parting brown hair, but at the time a pricey skinny jeans and she was going to a private school. It was enough to tickle my fantasy.
I spent hours in the attic playing and moving my body on Daft Punk with very privilege white cis men. They all had names of emperors and luscious curly hair. They are probably all unhappily married right now. They obviously didn’t care about my own existence despite me wearing Shmoove and a sleeveless cashmere vest. By the way I do agree they actually look terrible right now (the Shmoove, because the vest felt amazing) but at the time when someone wrote on the mirror with a lipstick and threw a quiche on the wall like in a Skin’s episode they were very desirable.
I spent a night in a tent with a burning throat, a night on a kitchen floor stroking some hair – same hair shared with two of my closest friends, a night in a library with a broken pipe, a night in a bath with a terrible but also incredible pink skull top – along with the Mickey one, a night with another bath because the window was broken, a night breaking bed slats and sleeping around a dying campfire, a night locking my bedroom door, a night throwing vodka water bottles into another campfire, a night crying about a crab with one claw, a night trying to get with a rabbit (even I don’t remember what I try to reference to there).
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