When you haven’t used your words in a while, it becomes even harder to put them down. You think oh, I must write about that, and I must write about that, and I must write about that, and then that all becomes too weighty and you can’t write about anything. And meanwhile your brain churns and churns and oh hey remember that silly thing you said in 2003? Because I SURE DO.
There has been a super pink super lesbian super moon or something recently. I’ll blame that for the malaise. Has it been depression or anxiety that made the floor lava? Anxiession? Depriety? Either way, it just meant hiding in bed with Sebastian, who is still my most wonderful fluffy boi, despite a few health scares and an evergrowing awareness that he’s running out the clock. Now a couple of days later when I’ve been moving my body more and eating vegetables and ticking off tasks to be more productive I’m almost furious at how much better I feel, like IT’S ALL SO SIMPLE. But then we get into the chicken and egg scenario, and wonder why they couldn’t both come simultaneously.
Fat has been on my mind a lot. I mean, obviously it has, it’s my business. I organised a fat swim in January and went on a hydroslide for the first time in 25 years. When I sat up there, feeling a bit scared although the size of the tube assured me I would not pull a Homer and get stuck, I thought to myself “Well, if I can be brave enough to start a business, I can be brave enough to go down a hydroslide”. That’s now the name of a talk someone is going to give at Camp Boom in November this year, which is fucking awesome. Also fucking awesome? This video of me at the recent fat swim in April:
And so the fat swim thing will take me to Auckland in three weeks (May 22, come along! And/or let’s hang out while I’m there) and I’m already dreading packing. Well, more specifically, the opening of the Trans-Tasman bubble takes me to Auckland so I’ve decided to put on a fat swim while I’m up there as well as booking in a solid night of crying a year’s worth of tears on the bosom on my most beloved. I’ve also booked a trip to Christchurch to go to the fat babe pool party down there, and to ride the choo choo train back to Wellington. Sara and I had a night in Taup? last year when we went to check out the venue for Camp Boom (have I mentioned Camp lately? You should come to it). Saj and I went to Marlborough for a day on the ferry to do a wine tour and get out of Wellington. I’m trying to do that whole do something new, New Zealand, thing. I do it from a world of privilege.
Recently I read a book (I’ve read 14 books so far this year, amazingly) called Letters from Skye which is, strangely enough, a novel told in the form of letters, and it made me think of the person I used to have email correspondence with when I was 21 after he emailed me saying he read my journal and it made him happy and he wanted to send me a present. The last time I thought about English Mark so much was when I was reading Three Women and pondering grooming and age difference and all of the many many awful things in that book made me think about so many awful relationships or things that have happened. But in this case, I just miss the story-telling. At 40 chances are I’m barren so who even knows if there’ll be someone to think about me but it might be nice for them to have some stories of mine if they do end up existing.
I’ve been contemplating this as well because I’m booked in for my first ever tattoo. Previous ideas I’ve had for tattoos are things that I am super super relieved I never got, so I’m worried about what if I change my mind? But I keep my paper diary from 1996 and 1997, and Hubris stretches back to 1998, and those are my stories, I own them. I haven’t deleted them despite some of the gross language I use and bullshit that I express because they’re part of me, so I figure a tattoo will be the same. Besides, who could ever regret a COVFEFE tattoo?
At some stage, maybe around 2005, I started a word document copying in all my old journal entries and annotating them and adding in all the <!—secret comment tag special comments – – > and even then there was plenty of stuff I couldn’t figure out what the hell I was talking about, so sorry about it, future me. But hey, here’s something I want you to know, future me – you’re pretty great. Like I really hope you have learned to listen to the 100 people who say nice things and not focus on the 1 person who doesn’t, but even if you haven’t got that, you’re still pretty great.
Tomorrow is Saj’s birthday party and Nors’s farewell, but I am not thinking about that part yet. Does not compute. Even with vaccinations on the horizon, the thought of travel to the UK is still a big no. I will settle for Melbourne for Jo’s birthday in June. I can’t believe it’s been a year since we went to Level 3. The loneliness of Level 4 still seems so fresh. But this means it’s also been a year since I’ve been in my once-new job, and a year since I eased alcohol back into my life in a very different capacity. You’ll still find me grizzling on Twitter about how unfair it is to know that when I’ve had a shitty day and all I wanna do is get drunk I don’t because I know it won’t help. But you’ll also find me with unwelcome hangovers after 50th birthday party sing-along Grease on an empty stomach. Balance, my friend, balance.