It has been a while and this is the state of my affairs. I’m sorry for the art and for everything. – Kobi
I have become a really awful human being and I mean really awful.
I’m not just the type who doesn’t brush their teeth (clearly four years of orthodontics has made me place unnecessary value on oral hygiene)….
I’m not just the kind of awful who purchases the Big Issue so that I can tell all the mullet-ed men between George Street and Central Station that I am indeed in the loop with their publication….
I’m the kind of awful person who tells someone I have had my last piece of gum, when I know there are at least four sticks sitting unperturbed in their box (yes, this might be a metaphor, it might not be. I am such an awful person I am not going to tell you).
I have turned 18.
Everyone tells me they remember being 18 and how fucking fantastic it was. My Grandmother likes to share what it was like being young and engaged and uneducated; enjoying her last moments as an uncomplicated, unpregnant young woman. Well, I embellish this a little (my Grandmother was a very much educated and independent woman and I give her a lot of credit for the things she achieved in her golden years). But turning 18 has not been the voting/pokies frenzy I thought it would be. Instead I spend my time crying on public transport and or getting to know Stanley at my local liquor store (I wish this was embellished). Best days of your life, more like not.
I spend a lot of time sitting on the train (in fact, they are becoming my new french girls, but I digress). I spend a lot of time sitting on trains crying while listening to Elliot Smith. I spend a lot of time sitting on the train, crying, listening to Elliot Smith and feeling sorry for the people who don’t know what it feels like.
I have been running into people I used to go to school with and trying to pretend that I don’t care that I am about to start my visual art degree/ push my uninformed political and emotional opinions on them. And by “political and emotional opinions” I mean talking about Tony Abbott and the acute pain he gives me in my gluteus maxiumus while I cry because apparently they are more perceptive and knowledgeable about my existence than me. It’s ok, we will be seeing who laughs at my funeral; plot twist it won’t be me.