Compulsory heterosexuality and my non monogamy

Source —

I left Matt’s dingy white tiled apartment building on a high, deciding to walk home astride the shimmering lights of New Canterbury Road, introspective the entire way. It seems as if five G&T’s is exactly enough alcohol for me to become philosophical, and as always follows a tryst that ends within three hours of me meeting the person, I felt a lingering shame, known only to myself and that only I knew was undeserved.

The shame comes from a number of places and manifests as a sharp wince of disapproval in the first moments of isolation after an act of…

I was stale drunk when Samuel and I started talking on Hinge three weeks ago, that expired feeling you get after being on the sauce all day, being close to throwing up and actually throwing up, all before 7 PM. I had recently changed the age range of my dating pool from 18–35 to a more responsible 22–45 after a friend asked me how many men I had slept with who were younger than me that were actually impressive in bed. …

Mind Games

A cupboard full of canned goods triggers my deepest insecurities

A blurred image of an aisle in a grocery store, focused on the center where a woman is walking.
A blurred image of an aisle in a grocery store, focused on the center where a woman is walking.
Photo: Thomas Hawk/Flickr

When I was 11 years old, I watched the second Jurassic Park movie, The Lost World, and had a panic attack about a giant meteor hitting the Earth and causing the end of the world. I lay in bed and pushed my open eyes into my pillowcase, imagining the last moments I would spend with my family. Apart from the total and encompassing terror a panic attack brings, I sensed frustration — this imagined catastrophe was so utterly unfair. Why did this have to happen to me? Surely it wasn’t the actual end? What did I do wrong?

My feeling…

Is it possible to both create meaningfully and exist purposefully?

Source: Blank Canvas Paralysis; The Modern Nomad

I am incredibly worried that mediocrity is beguiling me into believing I’m a good writer. It’s similar to the suspicion I get when my Mother tells me I am beautiful, but only does so because she has to, because she loves me. I often think about how many of the people I know have been told they were smart, or special, or interesting enough to establish themselves as a bastion of personality in their spheres. The “fake it till you make it” ideal I see reflected in everyone around me…

Metamorphosis of Narcissus (1937) by Salvador Dalí —

I sit on the train and play with the piece of curly hair behind my ear. Not exactly a distraction, but sometimes if I stop doing it I fear the world will become unhinged and my resting hands will be the cause of some sort of disaster. I look out the window as we come to a slow stop at Town Hall station and watch as children scuttle along near the windows and huffed women hurry up escalators.

Sudden, like a backfire, I imagine myself sliding in the tiny space between the train and the platform, my leg unable to…

Cara Roe

Hottie living and working in Eora, attempting to write in places that exist outside of my diary.

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