Last week I sat down to write a piece for uni. It was a total open topic: any subject, fiction or non-fiction, as long as it had a narrative thread. Literally anything. I sat at my desk and I thought about everything
Someone sent me this question on ask.fm: It's interesting that Amanda Palmer is the kind of person of whom people ask this question. There's a certain loadedness to it: you wouldn't say "what do you think about Nelson Mandela?" or "what
A while ago, Michael's grandfather died. He was in his mid-90s and had been deteriorating for some time. Nothing specific, just age and frailty. I called my nanna and told her of this. It's sad, I said, but he had a good life. She was perplexed. Why did he die? she said. What did he die of? What did he die of?
My mother doesn't take shit from anybody. She is kickarse in all the ways available. She is an empowered and balanced and amazing woman. If she weren't my mother already, I would wish that she were. Probably. No offense to my other, hypothetical mother. As far as role models go, she is the cream of the crop. She is a woman doing things in multiple STEM fields, being a caring and supportive mother and grandmother, and looking young and hot always.
When I was in my late teens, I went to Sydney to search for the person I loved. I had had my heart broken and I cradled its pieces in my carry-on luggage and we went to look for a new start together. In the first weeks I was there, I shared a bedroom with a friend of a friend, in his parents' house. It was a ways up the North Shore, and I slept on the train in a way I hoped was adorable and would attract suitable men or women. In the evenings I bought a bit of deep-fried chicken and bacon in pastry, and once a week we went to the RSL for dinner and trivia. I was never certain whether we were romantically involved, but I slept on his floor and he didn't wear a shirt to bed, and after three weeks he bought me a necklace.