"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>the gauze of afterglow

>each day i reunite.

jeannine and i have brunch in Soho and my tears of frustration run down my face. she goes into her purse. she pulls out a stone. volcanic black. but, she point outs, little rays of light are able to fragment through the opaque. she puts it on a chain and clasps it round my neck. remember that even in the darkest moments there is light.

whilst i am working in front of tv cameras, my sister steph is in front of newspaper cameras. that’s her in the photo and interviewed at the end…

lunch with claudia and shernette…i am hungry but i can’t finish any of the food. my stomach still collapsing from a month of disembowelling.

head out to west hampstead with Lu, Kat, Tanja, Paula and Francelle. find a shithole club where we do a round of shots before all but Tanja and I are left. we dance and get smashed while fanning ourselves with my stupid thai fan. fuck-buddy peter shows up. we head back to his place to watch james bond flicks and talk about naughty things. i end up falling asleep on his small leather couch while tanja gets all the spoils.

next day, “mr bigg” takes me out for indian cuisine. vegetable biriyani and chana masala in the window seat. portobello shoppers rage by. i hold his hand for as long as i want. to the waiter he says, “and the lady would like….” he hugs me and tells me he’s missed me. a long kiss goodnight.

lu, kat, tanja, paula and francelle and i hit The Warwick in piccadilly circus. two nights in a row i am drunk. i don’t get drunk ever. it’s a sickening feeling that makes me shake. i dance to mask the shakes. i grab my tits and wrench off the hands of men who want to pull me every which way. sweat and blood. dancing through a gauze of afterglow.

i realize that i only said ‘i love you’ because i had nothing better to do.

west hampstead

the warwick

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