Instalment XXXV – Wherein our little heroine returns to reality

Tales from the Tropics

The last tale from the tropics. I fly out in twelve hours. How’s that for a deadline? Never fear dear reader, there are plans for this platform. I’m not going to leave you hanging because that is a manipulative marketing strategy that makes the petit rebel in me always thing fuck off I don’t want to know what you have in store, I’m not that pliable except I did get addicted to psychics so… just know that I plan to persevere. It’s worth keeping in touch with me because it’s definitely easier than calling me on the phone or buying me a meal. Don’t worry about the meal either, I’m not so thin I look like a P.O.W anymore. You are excused from that particular responsibility at least.

I’m sitting in the hotel buffet breakfast like the only thing that makes me happy in this world is anonymity and black coffee and being a cliché. If only you could still smoke inside. So I disappeared without a trace. What’s the point in explaining that? It’s a fact.

Here’s a positive, I don’t feel like I want to rip off my human skin suit (Men In Black, Igor. Probs also Will Smith’s greatest role) but before I get over eager beaver let’s just chill and remember that we’re not in Melbourne yet.

All that running away and returning and I still haven’t learned shit (I am currently on mental breakdown and flee numero three). I visualise Melbourne as this giant icy lake that I know I have to plunge into, it is a combination of adrenaline and resolve that got me like baby don’t think about that decision or you wont do it. The dark petty version of me which is regular me, is looking with detached ennui at the slow hypothermic death that this little lake jump will induce, so cold you think it’s warm. Are you living or are you dying every day? Just a gentle drifting into the abyss of emotional anesthesia. Dark and petty. The sunny version of me, which occurs on good brain chemistry days, and an unquestionable gift (praise be) thinks that what I need to do is integrate this newer version of me into an old situation (duh, says the little cliché). Situations don’t change, people change. I am so fucking sick of emotional growth and these awful aphorisms. One day little heroine you might just get sick of learning things the hard way and then what is life but cruise control, brunches you can afford and cream coloured rich girl pants? Dear Melbourne, I am coming for your hustle.

xx SJ

Editors note: of course the fucking wifi at the hotel bombed out or there was some boring technical difficulty so this is backdated to the 21st of November. I promise i didn’t write it in retrospect. It’s too crazy. I’ve been in Melbourne two weeks and we are gonna talk about some real shit. It’s never over.

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