Kat George

Once I wrote this list I realized I’d missed a lot of amazing Bruce movies—Twelve Monkeys, Mercury Rising, The Jackal, Hudson Hawk, Blind Date, Striking Distance, The Whole Nine Yards—and I almost hate myself a little bit for not being more discriminating with my choices. But then I asked myself, WWBD?

We went back outside to the table where everyone was sitting, and there I was, between Dan and my boyfriend, with my ex and my secret sexual fantasy sitting directly across from us. Dan and I talked. He showed me his Flip and being the giant nerd that I am I thought it was really cool and it made me like him more. We talked and we told jokes and we picked on each other and flirted inappropriately.

Start partying as it gets warmer. Get to the club at 3am and don’t leave until midday the following day. Wonder how you’ll ever keep up with this sort of party lifestyle. Go to Berghain at least once. Get a bar job in an illegal club and start going to underground parties where the walls sweat and people like Dan Deacon play for free. Start to genuinely love electro music.

Recently my American housemate sampled some of my Vegemite while I was out of the house and she hated it. When I quizzed her about how she had eaten it I was horrified to hear that she didn’t layer it with margarine, nor did she toast her bread. “That’s not how you do it!” I screamed at her, cheeks turning rosy (rosy, not red, because I’m a happy little Vegemite, as bright as bright can be!).

When I finally broke, it was very difficult to un-break. I cried a lot. I didn’t understand why this was happening to me. I’d only had a handful of sexual partners and the only unprotected sex I’d had was with boyfriends who had been checked for STDs. I was immunised against HPV when I was 21—a fact that scared me more than anything, the knowledge that this thing could have been hiding inside me for up to 5 years completely undetected.

I’m both fascinated and revolted by my food baby. I look at it sometimes and stroke it, pondering the wonder of life — the awesomeness of the human body that it can contract and expand in such a way relative to what’s inside it. And then I look at it sometimes and wonder why, WHY, must I always look like I have a fucking small human growing inside of me every time I have a meal?

The kid can dance. A nine-year-old Robert Jeffrey that is, way back in the summer of 1991. Robert performed Madonna’s ‘Vogue’ in front of a blue screen at the Hampton Beach Casino in Hampton Beach, and what a performance (the best I ever did in front of a blue screen was pretend to fall down the face of a building—absolutely no skill involved)!

He kissed me by the taco truck and something stirred inside my underpants. The smell of sweat and tacos invaded my senses and I was rapt by the wetness of his mouth against mine. He pressed against me slightly and I felt his bits waking up too. When he asked if I wanted to get out of there I didn’t have to think twice. Not only was I in summer heat, it had been… a while, and I was feeling restless.

When I first moved to New York people warned me about the summer, “it’s so hot and awful, you won’t survive!” Bitch, don’t you know I’m from Australia? So come on New York, chin up. I understand how hot it is but saying so every thirty seconds isn’t going to make it any cooler.

When I got home I threw myself across my bed, pizza still in hand. I continued to cry, louder now, and reveled momentarily in my hideous self-indulgence. I fell asleep to the sound of my own sniveling. In my wrought sleep I dreamed vividly of a man I used to love. I dreamed of him getting married, of my total, gut-wrenching heartache; I woke up feeling exhausted, used up physically and emotionally…

So here I am, an almost-26-year-old-woman sitting alone in half darkness, writing this to you with Colgate Total all over my face. I’ve been Googling and self-diagnosing, and the internet seems to think that toothpaste will help resolve our issues. But I don’t know Pimples, I really don’t. The second I think I’m free of you, you just pop up again, completely unexpected. Would it kill you to call in advance?

I thought about all the boys I’d loved growing up. All the faces I’d ever torn out of Smash Hits to stick up on my bedroom walls as a teenager. And I realized that, like Justin Bieber now, they all had stupid, stupid hair. Absolutely nothing has changed since I was a amply be-hormoned tween—teenage girls still love guys with wanky hairstyles (Justin Bieber being the prime example) and they will forever more.