Friday night was my housemate’s birthday party and he got obnoxiously wasted. I walked into the kitchen at around half past nine and he was trying to open a bottle of beer with a potato masher. I tried to help him & he yelled at me that it wasn’t a potato masher and that I was a slut - then he let me open it for him with a bottle opener, then screamed at me to pour it into a cup that already contained rum and coke - I tried to tell him it had a drink in it already, I even made him smell it to prove it, he refused to believe me & called me an idiot until I did it. So I did it. I gave my housemate a tall drink that was half rum and coke, half beer, and he was so drunk that he didn’t even flinch when he drank it. Straight down, delicious, god Daisy you’re so stupid for thinking this would be bad.
Girls who tell me, “I don’t think my
boyfriend would be down with that,”
Heck bitch, I didn’t know he owned you.
No seriously, you’ve heard those words
a thousand times before, on your televisions,
on the lips of your mother, everywhere - not
always directed at you my darling, no.
But you’ve heard them, yes?
Have you thought about what they mean, to you?
In the context of your life, your choices, your soul?
What do you mean, your boyfriend
wouldn’t be down with it?
Tell me, is he there every night when you fall asleep,
does he follow you through then, to your dreams,
to cloud even your moments of subconscious
like no surface of the earth could possibly be viewed
by a set of eyes belonging to a woman who stands alone?
Tell me, does he truly own your touch, the way your
chest heaves when you have to sit down in the shower,
with the weight of the world crushing you, bringing
soap suds into your eyes because suddenly you don’t
know how to wipe it all away?
What do you mean, the opinion of your boyfriend
has taken priority over the way the wind shatters
through your hair on blistering Sunday mornings?
What do you mean, the way he feels about that,
can influence the very manner by which you view
this beautiful universe?
How did he become that special?
Whether it is attending a party without
his comforting hand at your waist, whether it is
foreign travel with a co-ed cohort,
whether it is singing on a stage, or
dancing for those who don’t care
for your talent - whatever it is, however it is,
however he feels,
surely that isn’t how you feel too?
If what you mean is, “I’m too scared//I don’t want to”,
please say so, dear, because as is,
I think your uncool boyfriend is an asshole.
As a lady with many tattoos, I was hoping to get your opinion. I am getting my second tattoo done soon, and I am wondering if it would be considered rude to bring a book to read while getting tattooed. I'm really shy, so I find it hard to start and hold conversations. Would bringing a book make me seem like a disinterested wanker, or would it be okay, as it is something to keep me focused and calm.
No that’s fine! You don’t even need to mention it, but if you want to, just say, “Oh I’m really shy, I hope you don’t mind if I read through this”, but honestly they’ll be so used to it they won’t even bat an eyelid. My friend brings his laptop & headphones to watch movies on whilst he’s getting tattooed, you’ll be fine!
I have lost the letter that you wrote for me,
the one where you drew a square, and scribbled within the lines until your pen wore through the paper - you wrote underneath that if you had to document everything you loved about me, the world would look just like that,
do you remember?
I have lost it.
I still have the packet full of black and white disposables that documented an evening of our kisses, your hand reaching out to me from a climbing frame on a children’s playground, your eyes asking me to join you -
I assume you’ve deleted all of our photographs,
you never did keep hard copies.
I look at them now and wonder what you think of when you think of me - I wonder if grapes are still your favourite fruit, if anyone buys you bags like I used to, and if you refuse to share them just as you always did;
I look at them now, and wonder how you’d feel if you knew there was a box at my mother’s house containing a bottle of five-dollar Hello Kitty apple scented perfume you gave to me six years ago;
I look at them now and wonder who you’ll marry - if you’ll ever tell her about your father, about the night your things were thrown into the street and you turned, of course, to me;
Do you look at pictures like I do?
Will you even know which letter I mean, the letter I vowed to keep forever?