April 10th: Feel inspired

It was about time for another mid-life crisis. I'd postponed my last with moving countries, settling, and drinking heavily with my newfanagled friends. But what am I doing? What do I want? It's these questions that, while I writhe in my thought infested sick bed on my days off from serving social degenerates and saints (and never the twain do meet) coffee and sandwiches. 

I've always imagined an impressive life for myself. A life of travel and inhibition, where my stories were filled with dramatic and unlikely characters, filling the pages notebooks and reams of loose pages found decades after my sudden yet timely death by rhinoceros horn. Yet my living life, pre-humous to the incident with the land unicorn, I imagine to be just as intoxicating, raising statues of marble around the world to say I WAS HERE I WAS HERE I WAS HERE. 

If I were a dream, and if I were as motivated in the between moments as I am now, I would have done more with my days off this week than watch Friends and Brooklyn Nine-Nine and read Maya Angelou and book domestic flights and wait for phone calls and emails and the profit of ambition previously fulfilled to come to fruition. 

I admire goddesses, and gods. The god of Thunder never wondered what to do with his days, where he'd be in ten years, if he should save this £10 or buy the pizza (I bought the pizza). The gods never had to be adults and make adult choices. They'd behave like children unsupervised in a department store, wreak whatever havoc they felt inspired by, and continued their life in whatever direction chose them. And they get to do cool tricks like ride goats and make things disappear. ffs. 

x

February 19th: Cafes and Wankers

There is an etiquette to cafes. I've only been in the industry a handful of years, but my ability to suffer fools who insist on encroaching on my life has dwindled from a once smouldering camp fire to the fizzle of a match thrown from a jetty to be swallowed and devoured by the moistness and the dampness of the Pacific Ocean. from inane, moronic orders to reverent disregard for the bog suckers who get paid to laugh at racist jokes, hospitality is the least fulfilling rent payer this side of prostitution.

They enter, glance for space, maybe smile the staff a polite hello cause mama raised 'em right, and then they claim their category - agreeable, or beast.

Agreeable customers make us say, "we like them. they can come back". Beasts earn carefully inoffensive bitch faces, raised tones, and curt, monosyllabic replies. "that'll be £4.50 (you little bitch come at me mother fucking) awesome honey we'll (little fucker) we'll bring that over for you".

It would be great to have an easily accessible information guide to answer the moronic questions asked daily.

If ordering a take away you must greet, order, pay, and stand in as non intrusive a hole as possible. Do not stand at the till, do not watch the barista making your coffee, and GIVE ME STRENGTH do not talk to the bastard making your coffee.

If you are paying separately, order separately. 

Do not order 'a coffee'.
(In the UK) flat white is strong white coffee. Latte is shit white coffee. Cappuccino is also shit white coffee, but with chocolate on top. Long black is good black, espresso based coffee. Americano is shit black coffee. Filter is batch brew, is made is bulk and, if done well, is life. Espresso is for wankers, the exhausted, and Europeans. Mochas are for 12 year olds and we do not talk about them.


There is no 'X' in espresso you sick fuckers. 

December 14th: Edinburgh

When you've been stolen, heart and soul, by a city, you notice its indefinites and its definites, its parameters define themselves and trends become so starkly apparent you can hardly believe you didn't appreciate them sooner. You try to remember the city when you arrived, but cannot. The roads that are your roads were nothing but grey cobbles and glinting ice crystals, the potential of your life when you arrived in the city is hardly comparable to the life you live now. It is your life. You built it, you decided who would be allowed to live in it with you, and who would not. You wrote this life, and it is yours. Your cobbles. Your skylines. Nothing can take this world from you, and you'll fight tooth and tongue to keep it. You share these streets these buildings these bricks with half a million locals and half a million tourists, but that doesn't detract from it being yours. It is yours. All yours. Always yours. 

My city belongs to writers and workers, speciality coffee companies and people who can't differentiate between an americano and batch. We live in our microcosm where we rule and are ruled. It is wet and it is cold and smells like salt and rain, but it is Edinburgh and it is ours, it is mine. 

Perhaps I'm feeling over sentimental. No, I am definitely feeling over sentimental. After much research I found a gem on my doorstep and now, whim away, I sit in Baba Budan watching cars chug over the lines of cobbles, I watch the clouds frame the great and complicated structures on Calton Hill and everything is wonderful. Christmas in Edinburgh is beautiful. The sun sets at 3:30pm, turning the sky a kissed purple before sinking and plunging the city into a preemptive darkness. And the lights shine. Princes Street glints from shop windows, the cries and laughs from the Christmas Markets bracketing the ice crystals on the side walk. The Castle at the top of the mile glows brightly against the deep blue of the Edinburgh night. Buses pass. People are wrapped in coats and jumpers and scarves and gloves, hot cider clutched desperately before excited lips. It is sweet and warm and tastes like Christmas in Edinburgh. Against happy pedestrians flitting in and out of shops, disgruntled locals cursing the markets whine in the corners. It is beautiful. St Andrews Square has been overrun and an ice rink stands in it's place. Things whorl and shine. Mulled wine and hot cider. Hot dogs and cotton candy. 

This is my city, it isn't perfect. Gales of cigarette butts and polystyrene flood the streets, attacking our homeless men and women who bundle against the cruel cold asking for our spare change to turn life on that pin it spins on. 

Edinburgh isn't perfect, but it's mine. It is a dynamic city where no two moments are the same. Cosmopolitanism is Edinburgh's spirit and soul, shops and bars filled with the Scottish, the Australians, the Swedish, the Kenyan, the Chinese. Edinburgh is home to so many. Edinburgh is home and it's ours. 

November 23rd: Pasta strainers

Do you want to know what pisses me off? Pasta strainers. They're seemingly a simple household tool, used nigh on daily by those of us with carb dependencies and yet are one of the most impractical items to clean. You cannot fill a pasta strainer. It's sole function is to NOT HOLD WATER and so how does one rinse a pasta strainer? I'll tell you.

Firstly, fill your bathtub with boiling water, epsom salt, and bleach. A few drops of tea tree essential oils is also a good trick for getting those stubborn grease stains loose. Turn all the lights in your house on, then off, then on, then off, singing Waltzing Matilda in E Flat and standing on the outer balls of your feet. Grab your cheese grater and just go on and grate some first born straight into the tub, agitating the water all the while. Leave overnight. The oils from the bleach and salt will activate with the lilting tones of Waltzing Matilda in E Flat, cutting the grease from your pasta strainer and allowing you to just wipe away the grime of last nights dinner. If it doesn't come clean as easily as Mulan's makeup, add some more first born and agitate the water more.

This trick works every time and while some of the tools can be tricky to get your hands on (epsom salt can be a real bitch) it's well worth it.

CHEESE GRATERS, on the other hand, are a far worse cleaning foe that we just will NOT get started on.

November 21st: Liv Can Cook - Quinoa

My grip on what was once known as the 'Womanly Arts' is tenuous at best. I blame my eyesight (not my natural distaste for such work) for my disinclination to clean, and my flatmates, old, current, new, and repressed, relish in reminding me that there are certain things that I should not cook. Primly, quinoa.

I love quinoa. It's just little flavourless condoms boiled and poked into submission, a grain so trendy that Pinterest refers to it as godly and starving children once simply called it food. The grain that works to disenfranchise families who relied on it to survive and feed their families, now paying $10 a kilo (a many faceted issue). But I digress, and still love it, primarily because it's fun to say. Quinoa. Quinoa. Quuiiiiiiinoaaaaaaaa. And, ironically, it's super easy to make.

It could be argued that my reputation is not unearned, but it turned out fine and the gaseous smoke stank that filled our flat dissipated within a few months with the help of windows and a metric fuck-tonne of Febreeze. But tonight I'll show those friends I endearingly insult. Those bastards will be hit by a flurry of flavour so intoxicating they'll believe I sprinkled heroine up in that shit. This bitch is making quinoa.

Ingredients:
500ml water
300g white quinoa
100g red quinoa
2 garlic cloves (crushed and diced)
1 little onion (diced)
2 tins kidney beans
handful of chopped green beans
fuck tonne of Cajun seasoning
fuck ounce of smoked paprika
bit of spinach
three fresh tomatoes, diced
salt and pepper to taste
heroine

DO IT:
Pop the quinoas and water in a pot over a medium-high heat. Chuck in the garlic and onion. Stir. Wait. Pop a beer. Continue waiting. Stir a bit. Go to the living room. Watch BoJack Horseman. Forget about the quinoa. Drop your phone, hear it smash a little more, and run to the kitchen. The quinoa is still boiling. You've made it just in time. Stir twice in either direction, scraping the charred black bulbs from the bottom and getting them all up in that quinoay goodness. Go get your phone. Open another beer. Continue watching BoJack, this time while stirring the quinoa. Note how the new crack always splinters across BoJacks face while leaving Todd and Mr Peanut-Butter practically uncut. Note the symmetry of fiction and reality. Contemplate how life would be different if you yourself were in a television show, who would be splintered? Would you escape like Todd and Mr Peanut-Butter? Or would your view from that tiny screen always be distorted through broken glass? Continue stirring. When most of the water is boiled away, put the diced tomatoes in, put the kidney beans in, and season to taste. If your friends are cool add some Tabasco, if they don't like spicy food, cut them loose you don't need that negativity in your life. Throw green beans in, keep cooking, and serve when green beans are still crunchy. Sprinkle heroine and spinach to taste.

Serve on a burrito for a culturally bastardised 'fusion' dish, or just serve on a piece of toast, or nothing at all. Your way to inflict suffering on your friends is YOURS and you should claim it as such.

October 15th: A Little Life

I finished this book months ago yet it's characters have invaded my life, inserting themselves into my dreams, and pulling me down the rabbit hole. 

October 4th: The Shit

I left the house yesterday and I was fully clothed. My jacket. My jeans. My shoes. I opened the door, ready to walk the mile to PoundTown (nee Pound Stretcher) and was promptly blown back inside by a rude but invisible fist of tendrils and trash, fresh from the snow caps just over the beach. Holy fuck Edinburgh, it was warm a week ago! Mere days ago I left and walked around in sunshine and rain and now I'm walking the NOW INSURMOUNTABLE MILE to PoundTown being tittywhacked by ice and rain and hale WHY IS THERE HAIL goddamit Edinburgh, sometimes you're too like Australia - you're pretty, but you're dumb.

Weather is dumb. I'm going to start a tour company and that is going to be the opening remark. Welcome to Edinburgh, weather is dumb.

The burgeoning Apocalypse beyond my flat makes my most recent purchase a curious investment. Why did I buy Genie booty-shorts? My doona (duvet) appreciates them, of that I am sure, but now I have to avoid bare windows lest my knees shrivel and my expanse of thigh and my bony little feet freeze into long and useless Calipo icey poles (Australian for Ice lollies). Who wants to eat Calipos that have been walking around? Even if they're in Genie booty shorts.

I got off track, I think. But winter is coming, the frost bitten gales have infected my sentience with muddy polystyrene, cigarette ends, and dog (and probably human) poo and piss.

I've been here a year and, yeah, sure, I chose this beautiful, dumb hell, but it's still nipply.

I bought gloves yesterday. I've never had gloves before. They're scalloped and stripper red. I love them. My stripper gloves.

September 10th: books

I've just spent the past 9.5 hours editing my favourite and worst book. I'm either going to die, cry, or pop a beer and eat pizza and Ben and Jerrys in the bathtub. I haven't decided yet. 

It's only been two years since I wrote the first last words of How to go to Hell in 80 Days, and twenty minutes since I wrote the 8th last words of How to go to Hell in 80 Days. I've lost so many chapters from bad file keeping, and so many jokes that are no longer politically relevant. I love my characters, and I love tormenting them. I love how they squirm and fight back. But they're not good people. I'm worried people will think they're good people. I'm not looking for another Atlas Shrugged situation. 

I still don't know if I want a beer or a nap. 

September 1st: Life is exciting

The Age of Enlightenment is here!!! The Future is NOW!!! My Noodles are READY!!!

After spending a month walking the streets for money (Flyering for the Edinburgh Fringe), I once again find myself relatively unemployed. And ill. I'm ill and unemployed. Ill and unemployed is one of the WORST combinations possible for a hypochondriac like myself.

I googled my symptoms.

I have an too many appendixes.

I've been trying to use my existential boredom productively, accessing a calmer, enlightened, more Buddhist self. I did some yoga the other day, but when I had to bend my lungs fell through my lips and I died. I tried cleaning the house. My flatmates freaked out when I told them. I don't know why. I haven't cooked, so they should be confident the house will be here when they get home! Goddamit, some people have no faith.

It's also my 21st next week and I've come to realise that I am in no way an adult. I pay rent and vote and do grocery shopping, but my flatmates who are moving out have promised to pop in to make sure I'm eating more than noodles and beer. My mam sent me part of my birthday present early. It was groceries from Sainsbury's. It had lettuce. Who needs a whole head of lettuce? And two bottles of Lucozade? AND EIGHT CHEESES? (perhaps eccentricities are genetic...)

That is my life as of now. Drinking, hoping there is money in my account, eating noodles.

Life is exciting.

March 7th: It's ok

I can't sleep. And it's weird because if you ask anyone sleep is the thing I love most in the world, and, depending how spiteful they feel towards me in the moment, my only true talent. I can sleep for Australia, they'd say, sleep for the earth in galactic games. But tonight I can't sleep. I've tried fantasizing about events that will never occur, outlining each moment like the dots of a painting strung high on an heiresses stucco wall. But I can't sleep tonight. My mind rages and bucks. My heart seems to beat twice as fierce as it did a couple of hours ago. My arms shake in their sockets from the stress of holding me aloft. It's not even midnight and I can't sleep. I'm listening to monk chants. I don't find them particularly relaxing but sitcoms have taught me much, and they've taught me the power of monk chants. I may try whale songs next. Maybe. I like the sound of rain and thunder storms. I've mixed those in with my monk chants in an attempt to recreate the womb like atmosphere of home in summer time. February lay long and tattered behind me, and march looms and whispers promises that drip like tar and acid and flesh peeling from a corpse. In the same vein, however, I'm quite excited. I have many plates spinning, thoughts whirling and eclipsing any anxiety of the future and what it holds. I can't sleep. And that's ok. Instead I will lie still and silent, monks chants playing through thunderstorms floating from my phone like a cheap, pixilated siren. I can't sleep. I can't sleep. And that's ok. 

January 24th: A Conformists Guide to Behaving Badly

An immigrant, gay transwoman of colour works her arse off for a life in politics where she is more than a punch line. The ever-extending funnel of minorities, united in pain yet divided by compounded injustices. It would be nice if we could swear off cruelty, go to an Arsehole Anonymous meeting twice a week and collect chips for milestones reached and conquered. But it’s an addiction, you see. There is one steadfast solution to cruelty. Love. Love yourself, love your friend, love your foe.

Love, and fight for love. Never forget, actively remember, but actively forgive. The past has nowhere to go, but the future is yours to shape and discover. Defying logic and expectation is exhausting. That’s it. It’s exhausting, primarily thankless, but not an option for those who want to succeed in natural selection. As it stands the ignorant will prevail, the intelligent will fade from the gene pool and the world we’ll leave to the apes will be little more than aggressive degenerates who know their heart as little more than where the thump-thump goes thump-thump.

As children, women are taught to be ashamed of their imperfections. To fat. To tall. To skinny. To flat. To much ambition, not enough arse. Girls are powerless until we’re told we’re powerful. But that is inherently wrong, a fallacy that gives power to others when our strength should echo through space and time and life until pussy power rains down on those who believe equality and oppression are one in the same.

December 19th: Good

I have decided that December 19th is My Day, a day where the sun shines and birds sing - though not actually because I am in Scotland, a sunkissed land where the sun is snow and cold and love and hate and whisky. Yesterday was terrible, I did things I wasn't proud of and wallowed in self-pity. I lay, curled in my expansive faux-mink blanket like a silky black crow, rereading The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss for the millionth time. I wanted to master Sympathy, to call the wind, to prove I'd made the right choice and everything would be better. But, as the real world is rarely so kind, I just lay, stagnant, pitiful, wallowing. When I finally drifted into that deep, impenetrable slumber that comes to the heart weary, everything compounded, a massing tower of guilt and pseudo-regret my conscious self refused to let congeal. In the night my phone dinged, and it buzzed. I slept through like a baby in utero, a tight, warm film between me and the reality of my situation. The binging didn't penetrate my warmth. I woke, convinced it was drawing nearer to late afternoon and soon the sun would slink beneath the castle. It was barely 10:30 and the city was clad in grey and white clouds, the kind of clouds that lock you in and suspend stagnation until it festers into action. These beautiful clouds welcomed me to the day. I opened my emails and waited. Days ago, weeks almost, I'd applied for more unwanted jobs than I realised I could deign to apply for. But there were two jobs I was desperate to hear from. My phone dinged and my emails popped up. the university I'd applied for sent me login detials! An exciting development on my eccentric career path! And then, blinking out from the top, all blue and unread, read the following. _________ Publishing RE: Malky. A reply. A manuscript I'd sent out mere days before had already had a reply. It was vague and indescriptive, but it was a reply, a semi-personalised reply. Possibly a form response, surely a form response, but a reply none the less. With names and dates and it was a reply.

So that is why December 19th is a good day. Because through the cloud clad sky beneath which horrific battles were fought and lost, I received a reply.

December 8th: Housemates

I live in a share house with five other people. Above me sleeps a Nepalese PhD with as much of an online spending addiction as I do. Across from her lay a les-bisexual couple who divide their time between wedding planning and nutting out a diet plan that consists entirely of Sainsbury's Strawberry Pencils and popcorn. Below them sit two rooms, tiny with single beds shoved against sparse walls and perverting windows. A Spaniard who spends his day and degree trying to find the perfect sausage rests at the bottom of the stairs. Next to him is Batman in all but action, a recluse with odd hours and a job we don't entirely understand. And then there's me, beside the bog (toilet), kitchen, front door, stairs, lounge room, and I hear everything. My housemates are lovely, sweet people, really, but right now, in the mood I'm in, I'm gonna lock them in their rooms and play Cotton Eye Joe until they scream for mercy, and then crank it louder. Like sweetie, dearie, fuck-tongue, if you don't stop screaming indecipherable, one-sided conversations I'm going to hurl fuckin ANZAC biscuits at your head until the thought of oats makes your eyes water and skin crawl. If I have to hear one more steady stream from a friend into the toilet bowl I'm gonna shit on their stoops. Maybe I'm just in a bad mood and over reacting. Maybe violence, just this once, is the answer.

Will report.

November 25th: a poem: can't word

the waft of coffee that fills this house
marks a job
well done
poorly done
hardly done
marks a denial
a refusal
omittance
persistence denied and uncoddled
like a child
crying for the mother that’ll never come

what happens to the child without
love

bastard limbs and cleft lip
boneless
sightless
speechless
no tongue to wail
or pose indignation
a child to destroy
to conquer
to defeat
crying beneath a tree for a
mother that’ll never come. 

November 23rd: a poem: all we want

all we want is to
love
without constraint
without fear
without hate

without knowing our love
is circumstantial based on our
financials
political
sexual
social
understandings of who we’ve been
to allot us a box to
sit
and stare
and wait
for our days to end
our time to fly
to wait

but wait
for virtuous patience
and good dissidence
to rise above the walls
built to keep us from touching
our kin across worlds
and cultures
and experiences
imagine how much we could learn
if we had no
fear built between us
imagine what we could see
could feel
could love
without fear built between us.

November 21st: a poem: about nothing

I’d like to prop a chair by my window
and sit
stare
watch
note
how the lives of strangers
feel so like
my own
how the charge of cars
and the
screams of birds
feel so
like my own

Billie Holiday plays through the window
and no one can hear her
feel her
be her
Intoxicate my soul
with her eyes
her voice
her yearn
I’ll learn
I’ll be

I’ll light a candle
and burn
everything I own
everything I’ve touched
but me
I’ll survive the
fire
the stare
the cars
the birds
take a Holiday
Intoxicated
in my Solitude. 

November 14th: Adopt a bartender today

It's been a monh now. The shadows grow, reaching out from their depthless recesses to pull me to their embrace. My foe calls to me, desperate and monstrous, threatening to wrap me in it's coarse embrace and ne'er let go. The dark pull of habitual inanities have taken everything and dashed it to nothingness. I am so fucking bored. A month. A MONTH. Longer! Even. Two months! I have been unemployed for TWO MONTHS and I'm dying. I made Danishes at 4am the other morning. Why? Because I could. I made ANZAC Biccies the other day. They were delicious, yes, lovely and moist, but necessary? Also yes. But still.

This sudden bout of unemoloyment was not sudden. For the past twenty odd years I've had the odd though terribly inviting pull to move to the UK. And now I'm here. YAY! I'm unemployed and dying, but I'm here. And that's nice.

I'VE EVEN STARTED WRITING POETRY?! Two things I can't do. Cook and write poetry.

I've taken to sending cold emails out. I tried bribing them with Haribo. Haribo is yet to sponser my hunt.

June 17th: Ook, A Creative Retrospective

Note: While scouring my hard drive for old stories and embarrassments to back up, I found a small bundle of old stories. The following is one.

Ook by Liv Bentley-Hill

Unconscious on a desk that was not his own lay Robert.

Robert was about to discover three things: one, he was more than a little hung over; 2, High Stake Office Luge was never a viable procrastination option; and 3, he was no longer brunette. The reason for his sudden and entirely unexpected change seemed related to the strange series of events that began from a birth Robert did not care to remember, his own.

The highlights: Robert was born, there was a witch, some blood sacrifices, they pronounced him male, brunette, 1’ 6” with an iddy biddy penis his parents were sure would grow. He was a perfectly standard baby boy.

But he grew up. And he grew up to be an exceptionally standard child, teenager, youth, and adult. It was in his adult years he met his perfectly standard wife who had a perfectly standard profession (CEO of an International Palm Oil Harvesting Company worth tens of dozens of dollars). Together they spawned 2.5 perfectly average offspring (side note: his penis developed to an average size his wife sometimes beheld with a sigh).

It was about this time, somewhere in his 37^th year when he started working for UU Pharmaceuticals. Approximately a week later, this incident occurred.

But I digress.

Robert woke that morning, head pounding, joints stiff and hair suitably thinner.

“Robertson settle this for us, the coffee girl- oh…” Came a familiar, self-important drawl from somewhere in the direction of the doorway.

“Ook?” Robert asked groggily from behind the science officers’ desk. 

“Johnson, Robertson’s a…”

“Ook,” Robert cried helplessly from his new lips. “Ook?!”

“Johnson, get Peterson.”

“Ook!” Robert called after the figures receding down the hall.

                Why is it always on a Tuesday? Johnson thought to himself as he ran to fetch Peterson, the clawed staff veterinarian, at least an orang-utan is more amenable than a Honey Badger. Honey Badger don’t give a shit.

/\_(o.O)__/  ß Orangutan

Meanwhile, on an estranged island on a thinning tropical subcontinent a belly wobbled. So did a leg. A jaw followed suit before a larynx joined the party. Soon the forest was shaking as the Ex-Orang-utan tugged as his now brown hair.

                There was wailing.

“Jees Karl,” one of the encroaching Orang-utans sighed, pulling from the spliff between his thumb (because Orangutans have opposable thumbs, humans being 97% orang after all) and middle finger, “just chill.”

                Karl did not chill. Karl screamed, spluttered and melted into a puddle of vegetable oil. Because that’s what happens when ordinary people, high orang-utans and big corporations try to ignore each other. Mess. 

February 19th: The Whimsy

It could be argued that I'm watching an excessive amount of Gilmore Girls and my banter game is at its peak, but how do people cope without The Whimsy?

It has also come to my attention that the notion and definition of The Whimsy is known only to myself and, after much one-on-one alone time, now my cat. Maybe it's because this interpretation is a creation of my very own...maybe.

The Whimsy is the fantasy that keeps you awake at night. It's not the ability to not take things seriously, so much as the inability to refrain from the funny hat. The Whimsy is what you feel when you're ten years old the night before a school excursion.  The Whimsy is Christmas Eve, it's eating cake before steak, it's wanting to try tomato sauce on pancakes because it sounds too good - not that bad, actually. 

I don't know how people live without Whimsy in their lives. You meet people daily who are lovely, and fun, but they have no Whimsy to dance to. And so I have to hold mine in, tight like a...well like a certain part of a religious figure my Catholic grandmother would abhor me describing. But tonight it burst forth, it erupted like an alien from a belly button, puss from a pimple. It was devious, it reveled in my lack of control as it shimmied my hips and slid my boots through the empty car park. The shame. Right in front of the cameras I jived and I gyrated and, in at least three separate numbers, I dipped the broom. THE SHAME. And everyone was watching! It's like the valve is broken from holding the usually torrential flow of Whimsy in the pipes and just releasing it at a high whistle until the pressure stabilizes. And then I'm at work again and ho! The valve tightens. 

Fuck the valve. 

February 19th: Nigh is death

I just ate three Maccas burgers in les than ten minutes and I'm dying. 

This will be my final post.