Tag Archives: writer

114.

I don’t miss you
because I don’t dare
to let myself
because it would mean admitting
that you meant anything

I don’t know you
and perhaps that’s why
I cared at all; I only know
the surface of you
the things you tell everyone

There is nothing special
for just you and I
only anecdotes, conversations
in smoking rooms
a compliment here and there

The kind that you would give anyone
a look that you would give anyone
and they wouldn’t read it as I do

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110.

How are other girls soft / where I am hard
How are they sweet / when I am not
I grit my teeth and clench my fists

I long for a boy to break my arms
to be tougher than I am
to challenge me to a fight

And yet not one has, not one can soften me
or crack my ribcage
to see if there’s a heart

The boys I have loved have been gentle
and they have been cold
the second one tried to drink my blood
I would baulk, but it’s the trying

It’s the trying, it’s the challenge
it’s that relentless, violent obsession
that could serve to get under
my skin

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2016

At the start of this year I made a list of resolutions, plans, and goals that some of you said was unrealistic; a list that, by and large, I fucking smashed. And then some. I did more than I expected to this year, grew more, worked hard. I’m currently working at VICE, something that a year ago I wouldn’t have even dared to hope for. I did so much stuff, so much of which was really random and cool and surprised me. Some of it was a total coincidence, and some of it happened thanks to my hard work. 2016 has been trash for a lot of reasons for a lot of people, and yeah, a lot of the things that happened to me weren’t ideal. But we’re here and we’re alive and I’m hoping that 2017 will bring me everything that my little heart could dream of; I’m sure I’ll deliver a goals list for then, too, soon enough.

So I wanted to:

Watch more films
Save 8,000 – no I did not do this. I was too busy having fun.
Plan a trip yes – I went to Amsterdam, Prague, Budapest, Berlin, Las Vegas, and California
Publish film, poetry, other articles I published at least 100 articles, worked at The Debrief, and now I’m at VICE until February
Start my book finished it, edited it, trying to find an agent for it
Relax/see friends
Stay organised and work hard
Visit Europe
Go to events I went to a lot of events innit
Do an interview
Do a F2F interview
Attend an event as press
Don’t get a shit job for 1 year

And here’s what did happen:

♡ I graduated from my MA
♡ I had my first piece published by Bustle
♡ I interviewed Richard Dreyfuss
♡ I drove for the first time in years and took a trip to Bristol
♡ I had a horrible writing experience that I got over
♡ I started writing for Hello Giggles
♡ I wrote a piece for Pop Matters
♡ I covered Handmade Festival on a press pass
♡ I went to see Weezer for the first time since 2011
♡ I met We Are Scientists On Brighton pier
♡ I got fired by my shithead boss who still hasn’t paid me and didn’t panic
♡ I wrote a few pieces for Dazed
♡ I covered Wild Life festival for Crack magazine
♡ A week after I got fired, I started a project for Nickelodeon with a Brighton company
♡ I continued working at said company and made a ton of friends
♡ My family fell out with me over Brexit
♡ I travelled Europe with my American friend
♡ I worked at The Debrief for 2 weeks
♡ I went to Motion City Soundtrack’s farewell tour
♡ I continued working with Tilt as their main content person
♡ I celebrated my 9 year anniversary
♡ I went to Las Vegas and then California
♡ I interviewed Kreayshawn for Noisey magazine
♡ I went to Teen Party and met some people I like from the internet
♡ I met the editor of my favourite magazine and she offered me an interview
♡ I did interview with Empire, got down to the final 2, then didn’t get the job
♡ I went to Molly Soda’s art show and we hung out, she’s a gem
♡ I went to see Jimmy Eat World
♡ I started working with VICE for three months and got stuff published with them
♡ Wrote for Nylon, The Debrief, and more
♡ I started tweeting my diaries @emodiary05
♡ I started and maintained a ton of projects
♡ I finished my book
♡ I got asked to DJ as emo diary
♡ I went to Sticky Mike’s to be emo and cute a lot
♡ I went to the VICE Christmas party
♡ I’ve been doing ok at Twitter and have some cool followers and I like that ok

AND THE YEAR ISN’T OVER YET LADS

 

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b.

My grandad’s partner died

Seven days ago. Seven days and he didn’t tell me – for fear that it might disrupt my day to day, because he was worried it might upset me. And my grandad’s partner doesn’t incur much sympathy from friends or from family who find it so easy to say well, she wasn’t your grandma. But wasn’t she? My grandma died before I was born and so I knew Barbara from the time I was 3. That’s 20 years. What makes a grandma? Is a grandma someone who cooks you dinner, buys you gifts, holds you, watches TV by your side? Is a grandma someone who teaches you to knit and write and read and pretends that your projects are worthy of display? What about a woman who takes you in when your parents aren’t around, who adopts you from the horrors of home? Who enjoys your visits even when her mind is falling apart, even when she can’t remember how old you are or when you met or what breed your dog is. She wasn’t your grandma. Okay. Fine. My grandma stepped aside when my parents abused me, when I was hurt, when I was bullied. But Barbara she let me dress up in her jewellery, she lent me her childhood books, she let me sleep in their bed when I got scared. She acted as mother and grandma and friend when she didn’t have to; when nobody asked her or required her to step up. If that isn’t a grandma or better than, if I haven’t a right to cry and mourn her and write up her memory then I want no part in anyone else’s definition of family.

It happens to all of us; she’s better off. Said my grandad, the same strong, pragmatic man who waited seven days to tell me she was gone. But it doesn’t alleviate my sinking heart, my feeling that the pseudo-family I have built will drop away one by one until only my blood relatives are left.

And what then?

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107.

There’s a confessional air to the way I
spill every second of conversation, every detail
as if I’m purging myself of the sins in my head
as if the words matter
as if my actions, matter
when what matters is that I’m squirming
in my seat, breaking down every word
that I might one day need them
that I could fuck myself with a glance
with an aside, with my tension
on the days that I’m without you
and regretting what did and didn’t happen

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106.

For better or for worse
my obsession with success
with calendars and ticking clocks
has brought me here

I feel my body decay
month by month, day by day

And I can’t quite vocalise
what it is I fear
only that when I’m forty
I want to be happy

To not regret leaving friends behind me
to not long for
crowded halls
to say only I am relieved

That I had fun,
but I am glad I am here

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105.

It’s only November

Only November and I still just want to be alone
to sleep until six, seven, alienate everyone
and I know it’s better for me
to have friends, to read, to drink and eat
but I would rather sleep

Where is the person I was in July, August,
even September, a false sense of self
aided by the palm trees and desert dust
and nobody will ask me if I’m okay
if there’s anything they can help with
because they’re all so wrapped up in their own death
as am I

I don’t really remember my mortality
until November
that’s a lie, I can feel myself dying every day
and I can’t believe we’ve December, January,
February and March until this mess is over
and then after a brief flirtation with ice cream
and freckled skin, it’ll just start again

Who can love me in November?
as I just barely hold myself together

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