Friday, 31 May 2013

Street Talk: Alex With The Studded Hot Pink Belt.

Alex was on his way back from a skate park near the Central Coast when I saw him. He didn't mind when an absolute weirdo woman stopped and asked if she could ask him some questions for a blog.

"For sure. Go for it."

He's sixteen, with the most gorgeous colour hair. Kind of auburn. He stood straight at me, ignoring his mates hovering around, trying to hear what we were saying.

Alex gave school the flick and is now doing a course similar to Year 10, except it has all these different topics for "the real world" - to help him decide what kind of job to get when he's finished.

He likes soft R&B and some rap. He looked at me so intently I almost blushed. I asked him if he thought young people thought older people didn't understand them.

"Nah. They were young too, once."

He squared himself when I took his photo. I shook his hand goodbye and told him how much I really fucking loved his hot pink studded belt. He laughed.

Most people his age are still trying to fit in. I love the ones that want to stand out.


Friday Street Talk is an unfolding art project. I'm so grateful and blown away that people say yes to talking with me, trusting me with some snippets of who they are. It keeps changing. 

Previous Street talks:

1. Noelene the Young
2. Megan the Mouse
3. Harpal the Australian
4. Darren the Artist
5. Jo the Interesting
6. John the Telstra Guy
7. Michael the Photographer
8. Peg the Lady
9. Jeff the Preacher Man
10. Andres the Cobbler
11. Honey the Prostitute
12. Mark the Masseur
13. You the Blog Reader
14. Jo the Podiatrist
15. Casey the Uni Student
16. Dream the Horse and Carriage Driver
17. Tamas the Hungarian Accordionist
18. The Dignified Trolley Ladies

Wednesday, 29 May 2013

We Need More Wild Abandon.

Hi, it's me. Just trying to work stuff out, be present as a parent, hold my shit together, doing the very best I can. Finding beauty in things like the way these guys hugged this morning.

                           Love is this completely real thing. 

Some big news on the weekend: I made a pizza from scratch. Dough and all.

I went out to the veggie garden to collect some basil (that the boys promptly picked off) and mentioned to Rocco that there was a carrot that looked like it was ready to be picked. So he RUNS out, pulls it with all of his might and ....

... and he laughed like I've never heard him laugh.


As I put him into bed that night he was all, 

"Remember that square carrot?" 

And just lost it, laughing so, so hard. With wild abandon.

It's autumn. All the leaves are falling and I'm steeling myself, imagining next springs minuscule buds underneath the bare branches.

I put some Blunnies on Daves' account at the hardware shop, texted him a thank you. 

My gorgeous friend Kim and I talk about each others mental health a lot. It's quite relieving to have someone know what you're going through.

                            Great on the outside, complete wrecks on the inside.

She casually asks me what I've been watching on TV - I tell her American Horror Story, Greys Anatomy, The Wire.

She told me to stop with the gory, negative scary shit IMMEDIATELY and hire out some light and fluffy escapism. So I did.

 Oh, to be Addison! (Am I the last person alive to hire DVDs from the video shop? I have seventy-five dollars in late fees and every time I go in I have to pay ten percent of it. So manageable right now. *slowclap*)

I scored a preview this week of watching a few episodes of Australian Hamish MacDonalds new series"The Truth Is ...?" Hamish is a journalist, news presenter, and foreign correspondent. Each episode sees him and his team scouring the globe looking for engaging, offbeat stories of places and people.

It's a bloody ripper - killer graphics, really well presented, and starts next Monday on Channel 10 at 8.30pm. I hope it gets picked up internationally.

Hey Hamish - nice jocks.

So. That's where I'm at ... hanging out washing, folding, writing, organising dinner, school notes.

Trying to let that all be enough. Because it is. In this world of QUICK FAST BETTER BEST .... simple and small is enough. Even though we may not feel it.

How are you doing? Anyone have any fines, anywhere? (I have one at the library too.)

Friday, 24 May 2013

Street Talk: The Dignified Trolley Ladies.

Last week I had to take my car down to Penrith to get a service and buy all the things needed for Roccos birthday party: lollies, piñata fillers, balloons. Basically a whole heap of crap. I wasn't in the best frame of mind, but did it anyway. Sometimes if I ignore how I feel and just do the things I need to do, I come good.

There was no coming good. My car took eight hours to get serviced, which left me stranded in the shopping centre freaking out because it was too peopley. I pushed my trolley around and around, kind of doing a workout. All the medication and lack of exercise lately ... I've put on a lot of weight and feel disgusting.

I had the bright idea to walk to the car dealership while pushing my trolley because who cares, right? When I got outside it started to get a bit tricky because you're not supposed to push a trolley outside. You look like an idiot.

People heard me coming a mile off. So embarrassment. I pushed my trolley to an intersection busy with people and cars. CRINGING. Just ridiculously self-conscious. And then suddenly, right next to me ..... stood a lady with a packed trolley just like me.

Out of all the people I've met on the street so far, she spoke to me first. It was so refreshing, and lovely, and reliving. She said:

"Oh thank goodness. I thought I would be the only one pushing a trolley outside in the street!"

And I said I though the exact same thing! The light turned green and we crossed the road joking that all we need is nineteen cats. And we parted ways, her with a cheery,

"See ya! Hope your boy has a nice party!"

I don't know her name and she left so quickly I only managed a photo of my shadow pushing my trolley.

Clearly my guardian angel is too busy smoking cigarettes to be watching out for me.

I got lost walking back to the car dealership. While pushing my trolley, on main roads, back and forth, tears sproinging. Beautiful teenaged schoolgirls smelling of body lotion, walking past me with skirts hitched up, no idea that life is meaningless and youth is fleeting.

The terrain was so rough that my teeth clattered. I was like that fucking tinker in the original Willy Wonka. Remember Charlie standing there, longingly looking at the factory? And suddenly this tinker appears and says:

"Nobody ever goes in. And nobody ever goes out."

And when he walks off SO noisily you just don't know how he managed to walk up to Charlie so quietly. It's always puzzled me.

So I'm this middle-aged grey-haired tinker pushing a trolley laden with shit topped with a number five piñata, crying.

It eventually all worked out in the end. Obviously. The best part was walking in solidarity with my trolley sister. I'm so glad she spoke to me.


Friday Street Talk is an unfolding art project. I'm so grateful and blown away that people say yes to talking with me, trusting me with some snippets of who they are. It keeps changing.

Previous Street talks:

1. Noelene the Young
2. Megan the Mouse
3. Harpal the Australian
4. Darren the Artist
5. Jo the Interesting
6. John the Telstra Guy
7. Michael the Photographer
8. Peg the Lady
9. Jeff the Preacher Man
10. Andres the Cobbler
11. Honey the Prostitute
12. Mark the Masseur
13. You the Blog Reader
14. Jo the Podiatrist
15. Casey the Uni Student
16. Dream the Horse and Carriage Driver
17. Tamas the Hungarian Accordionist

Tuesday, 21 May 2013

From Four Cells To Five Years.

The very first time I saw Rocco he was four cells old. Up on a monitor in an IVF clinic and BLIP he was shot into me like a cannon. I walked lightly out of the room, thinking, I could *totally* be pregnant right now.

I was, in the next few weeks I could feel strange tugging like a spider weaving its web up and down. It was Rocco, he took hold like a champ and did not let go. I had all my IVF posse bloggers back then, my Pam and Palemother and Tobacco and Lori and Mel and Louise and Nancy. And Vee. I miss those innocent days.

Rocco grew and grew.

 He was born. He cried for about a year, and woke every few hours.

I only had eyes for Dave, who was really sick at the time.

                 "Mum, Crash Bandicoot is our brother too."

Everything I wanted, yet the universe plays tricks. I was strong for my boys because there was no choice.

Rocco and I went straight from maternity at Katoomba to oncology at Nepean. To visit dad. Not knowing what's going to happen to somebody you love is one of the hardest things to accept.

Dave came home a few weeks later and was on chemo for a long time.

We used to walk around the lake, a lot. And avoid people.

We didn't know back then that fights like this would happen in the future - that Rocco would beat up his dad while wearing a PULLUP. (Hon - looks like that lion is ripping out of your SKIN.)

Spring came, Dave got the all-clear, and five years later we all woke up and got to watch this guy open his presents with utter delight.

NEVER have I seen a person so excited about their birthday. He's been counting down for so long, and he's never really had a party so we went all out. Five just seems to be such a milestone. New bike, 20 kids, a jumping castle ... the works.

My beautiful friend Naomi has a cake-making business called Dough Re Mi. Rocco asked for "Rockman", who technically is called The Thing. The best chocolate cake I've ever tasted in my life - and I've tasted a few.

And the best party he's EVER had in his.

When everybody whacked the piñata they screamed like Beliebers. I was like an airline hostess for two hours, monitoring fights and toilet trips and games and general party mayhem.

"Excuse me .... you spelt my name wrong on my cup."

Rocco's older brother Tim was there, and Phoebe, and Max. When everybody sang happy birthday, he stuck one of his fingers under my hand for security, uncharacteristically shy.

Later I cuddled him so tightly before bed. I felt his heart beating, and marvelled at those four cells.

I love him. I love him.

Thursday, 16 May 2013

Washing The Dishes.

I had the idea for time-lapse Buddha ages ago. Saw the sun creeping slowly onto his face one morning and had the idea of making a Vine out of it, so it's all meaningful and shit and I get kudos for being so clever.

At last count, I've tried fourteen times to get it right. Either I miss the sun, or the phone would ring, or the phone would go flat, or I kept pressing the wrong button. I was filled with complete rages during this time. I just want to be clever why won't you behave Buddha I am trying to be all Spiritual.

Then it got funny. I don't even know that much about  Buddhism. I just like how there's no angry, vengeful, catholic god. And also - how could all those chilled out orange-robed guys be wrong?

The very first rehab I went to, at the grand age of 24, I learned nothing. Because I was unteachable. An arrogant, smartarse dickhead. But I did have a torrid love affair with a guy named Eli.

Eli was washing all the twenty sets of dishes one night as I stood there all doey-eyed at him and he said:

"You know, when you wash the dishes .... you should just wash the dishes. Not reflect or think or worry or wander. Just - wash the dishes. That's it."

Eli remains the only person in my life to date to explain Buddhism to me. Being present. Mindfulness.

My therapist told me the other week to narrate what I'm doing in my head. So I have been.

"41 year old woman sits on a chair."  "Drinks glass of water." "Sets table." It's so relieving, and has really helped in settling my anxiety down.

The irony of Buddha making me so furious was not lost on me. Even though I panic while saying good morning at the end ...  I finally did what I set out to do.

PS Top left you can turn the sound on

He's the one sitting on his ledge, knowing all the secrets even though his eyes are shut. I'm the one being a scrambling lunatic.

How do you practice mindfulness?

Wednesday, 15 May 2013

The Riddle.

Sometimes I stand at school assembly, look around at all the kids, and wonder which of them are gay, lesbian, transgender.

Maybe quite a few, filled with the terror and angst it takes to hide their true selves so that others won't find out. It'd be so, so hard. I can't imagine.

The National spokesperson for PFLAG, Shelley Argent, contacted me recently and asked if I would share this short video.

This Friday the 17th May is International Day Against Homophobia, Intersexphobia, and Transphobia. Hashtag is #IDAHOBIT and it starts at Martin Place at 6.30am til 2pm. There'll be photobooth fun, a roaming army, and lots of supportive attendees.

        LGBT rights ... are human rights

I've heard it gets better.

But there's still a while to go.

Tuesday, 14 May 2013


I've been lighting fires, even when it's not that cold.

                                        It just feels so good 

I love having just the right amount of kindling and the bigger stuff. I like making it rage until everybody complains we're living in a sauna.

We did indeed go see mum for Mothers Day. I taught her the correct way to unwrap the aluminium foil on a chicken and blackbean burrito. Mum gave Rocco something he has been harping, hankering for, for months now.


We paid a mere twenty thousand dollars for our tickets and drinks to go to the movies and see Ironman III.

The drive home was long. Traffic backed up. It doesn't take much to freak me out these days, but I was as patient as could be. Max asked me if I could stop and buy him a box of TWENTY chicken nuggets from the golden arches.

"I promise I'll eat them mum. You watch ... I'm starving."

I thought about getting home late and preparing dinner - so the arches it was. We had to wait in the waiting bay while they cooked them. Lady came over, gave them to me. I handed them to Max who had a funny look on his face and said,

"Mum. You may want to ..... close your window."

I closed it, absentmindedly thinking he didn't like the breeze but then hang on - there is no breeze. I turned to look at him, holding his ginormous box, looking at me all worried. At that moment, I knew. I KNEW ... there was a huntsman spider on the car.

I have arachnophobia so badly that I weep. There's only one thing worse than having a huntsman spider on your car - it's not knowing if it's inside or outside the car.


Max said it's *probably* outside. He also said it was quite big. Things go a little hazy at this point. Max later tells me I said the words:

"NUP. No. I can't do this. No way."

And then climbed over on top of him to get out of the car, which was by now right in the middle of the drive thru traffic. Other cars had already started to bank up. I begged the woman in the white car behind me to please help me get the spider off the car. She ignored me. I went up to teenagers, a family, they all said and did nothing for the wildly panicked woman. Really, society?


My hands were sweaty and I was half-crying, until FINALLY a beautiful woman came up to me and told me it was ok, then shouted to her kids to go inside and get Uncle Terry. She took my clamster hand and told me that this happened to her one time too. And unfortunately she never found it. We both laughed a little maniacally ... she was SO lovely to me.

A McDonalds employee came out, wondering why there were about twenty cars blocked in all directions. He was all shitty and I said dude, there's a spider in my car. I'm not moving it anywhere.

Suddenly, out comes Uncle Terry. I scream at him. UNCLE TERRY!! My car was still idling at this point. He gets in and goes to park it somewhere so the cars could pass. The woman next to me says, "Hey so, isn't your other child still in your car?"


I had completely forgotten about Rocco. I couldn't even rush over to see if he was ok when Uncle Terry parked because SPIDER. I was banking on him showing his toughness.

Uncle Terry and the woman (her name was Susan) helped look in and around and on my car for the huntsman. There is no way I could have driven home if we didn't find it. The logical conclusion would be to rescue Rocco, then pour petrol on it and light a match. FINALLY, Uncle Terry sees it. Flicks it off and stomps on it like the hero he is. I high-fived Uncle Terry and hugged Susan. I love them. I will love them forever.

"Thank you for helping people that you don't even know!"

We drove home, my adrenal gland SHOT, my body heat fogging up all the windows because SPIDER.

I lit the fire. Then we all put our pj's on without having a shower and watched TV together on the couch. I apologised to Rocco for leaving him in the car. His exact words:

"Pfffffft. I wasn't scared mum. I just wanted to see the spider."


PS I wrote about not caring about being an under-achiever over on Mix.FM HERE

PPS I keep thinking there's spiders on me. I'm scratching, flicking, on high-alert. I blame that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark - remember when he had spiders ALL over his back? YEAH.

Monday, 13 May 2013

Friday, 10 May 2013

Except Me. I'm Still Talking About The End Of The World.

What's with all the bullshit about Mother's Day? Why do all the "things" ... like Christmas and Easter ... keep getting bigger each passing year? All my mum wants for Mother's Day is a burrito. And to come to the movies with me and the boys on Sunday to watch Ironman 3 with us because she watched Ironman 1 and 2 with Jim. We might even eat our burritos IN the cinema with lunch dessert on our laps. WHO EVEN KNOWS. Point is, we're spending some time with people we love. That's all. Does everything have to be marketed to the shithouse? I have my cranky pants on today.

I don't know so many things. It's exhilarating and quite frankly, relieving. You know what nine days out of a mental health ward feels like? Fucking terrifying is what it feels like. One day when I was in there, Dave visited with REAL coffee. We sat out on the tiny grass chatting like everything's fine. I was handling it all - my darkest thoughts, diagnosis, crap food, being held against my will.

Then Dave mentions that the budgie flew away.

I cried, like I'm crying now, and I cry everytime I think about the budgie. Who knows if he made it, out there in the Big Scary World. I had a connection with that budgie. Really grew to love him. Max let him out in his bedroom then Rocco left the front door open and now he's gone. If I'd have been here, it wouldn't have happened.

The thing about the budgie that always baffled me is that when I let him out, to fly and cruise around the house, he didn't want to. He'd always fly back to his cage and wait patiently, to be let back in.


About an hour ago, I'm sitting here on my couch in crazy-persons clothes, greasy, stinky, sad. There was a knock at the door and a courier delivered me these:

It's twelve bottles of wine from a PR agency - for Mothers Day.

As a recovering alcoholic I am not offended at all. This has made me laugh so, SO hard. For the first time in ages. So hard. (I can guarantee any alcohol company they do not want a product review from me ... unless it involves faeces, fornication, vomit, and raging despair.)


In the mail I also received a gift from two beautifuls, Magnetoboldtoo and Veggiemama.

"I tried to drown my sorrows but the damn things learned to swim." 

It's a quote by Frida Kahlo, that U2 used in the song describing a conversation between Jesus and Judas, "The End of the World."

I was 21 at this concert. Thought I knew everything. (Maybe I did.)


It's Friday. Street Talk day. Can't do it. I'm barely functioning, on a shitload of medication that we're still "tweaking." Severe constipation, a urinary tract infection that has given me a fever, and a head that still wants to kill me. I've purposely stayed off this blog because no news is good news, right?

So because there's no rules to blogging I'm going to cheat at Street Talk today and tell you about somebody I met on the street approximately twenty years ago. You know that Dr Seuss book when the the north-going Zax meets the South-going Zax? In the Prairie of Pax?

Well that's exactly what happened to me and this guy one day walking through Hyde Park in Sydney. There was plenty of people around, but we were walking from opposite directions in exactly the same manner, got to each other, stopped, and looked.

And this dude goes,

"Well .... hi!"

And I said,


Then we stood there for about twenty minutes, chatting. I can hardly remember the conversation - but I do remember that when he told me his name was Electric, he put his pointer finger on my arm and went ZZZZT and we both laughed.

We exchanged rings - I think I still have his, somewhere. It's big, never fit me, and made from metal. But I kept it. Never saw him again.

Once you talk to someone, they're not a stranger anymore. It's the darndest thing.


Friday Street Talk is an unfolding art project. I'm so grateful and blown away that people say yes to talking with me, trusting me with some snippets of who they are. 
Previous Street talks:

1. Noelene the Young
2. Megan the Mouse
3. Harpal the Australian
4. Darren the Artist
5. Jo the Interesting
6. John the Telstra Guy
7. Michael the Photographer
8. Peg the Lady
9. Jeff the Preacher Man
10. Andres the Cobbler
11. Honey the Prostitute
12. Mark the Masseur
13. You the Blog Reader
14. Jo the Podiatrist
15. Casey the Uni Student
16. Dream the Horse and Carriage Driver
17. Tamas the Hungarian Accordionist

PS I'm seeing three professionals and doing all the right things and trying to just chill but man I completely understand why the budgie wanted to go back into his cage. I miss hospital.


PPPS Mum for Mothers Day you're getting a burrito AND twelve bottles of wine.

Friday, 3 May 2013

Street Talk: Tamas The Hungarian Accordionist.

I'm in in Sydney tonight which is weird but everything's weird so may as well just go along with it.

Dave and I drove off the mountain to go spend some time together just us two. He is so cool to do Street Talk with .. he wants to talk to everybody, while I walk around in hand-wringing embarrassment.

About an hour ago we were walking in Circular Quay and heard an accordion and said man, wouldn't it be cool if that was an actual accordionist.

It was an actual accordionist.

Tamas was playing the same tune, over and over again. When I asked him his name, he just looked at me and laughed and laughed, eventually saying "Tamas." Not sure if Tamas really is his name or not but we'll just go along with that too I guess.

"What is that tune you're playing? It sounds familiar."

Tamas said it was from the Godfather and Dave and I both said YES. Pretty sure Godfather 2 is one of the few sequels better than the original.

Tamas had a well-worn cap perched on his head with brightly coloured letters spelling out SYDNEY. His fingers were a bit grubby. He doesn't earn much, these days. He doesn't miss Hungary and moved to Australia when he was 22 years old. Never married, no children. Just him, his worn cap, a small puppy and a spectacular accordion.


Friday Street Talk is an unfolding art project. I'm so grateful and blown away that people say yes to talking with me, trusting me with some snippets of who they are. THANK YOU to my sister Linda for getting the last three up here, while I was away.

Previous Street talks:

1. Noelene the Young
2. Megan the Mouse
3. Harpal the Australian
4. Darren the Artist
5. Jo the Interesting
6. John the Telstra Guy
7. Michael the Photographer
8. Peg the Lady
9. Jeff the Preacher Man
10. Andres the Cobbler
11. Honey the Prostitute
12. Mark the Masseur
13. You the Blog Reader
14. Jo the Podiatrist
15. Casey the Uni Student
16. Dream the Horse and Carriage Driver

(Am quite overwhelmed with the response to my last post. How did we all get here together? What happened for us all to meet? The words "thank you" doesn't even cover how I feel about your love and support for me and my family. But thank you, hugely, anyway. xxx)

Thursday, 2 May 2013

I Shed My Skin And Put My Bones Into Everything.

It's hard to start writing this.

I could start at the exact moment the woman with the long hair spat mashed potato onto my glasses. I could start when I fell into a deep psychosis while walking through New Yorks diamond district the week after my stepfather died in July last year. I could start the day Dave went to his cancer ward while I went to the newborn ward. So much to choose from!

I keep sweeping the shards of the story up into the middle of the room to dispose of them thoughtfully but they just keep coming.

How about I just start with the distinct feeling that I've never actually felt ok?

Almost a month ago I asked my sister Linda to drive up and be with my kids for a while so I could check myself into hospital and have a breakdown please? I was so polite.

She careened up .... and Like Doctors Without Borders, we coined the term "Sisters Without Pity."

I abhor pity.

I went into emergency and within half an hour was scheduled against my will into the hospital because I was a danger to myself. (Probably because I was a danger to myself.)

Talking about mental illness is a slippery eel. If I went into hospital almost a month ago because of a broken leg? Completely legit. But I went into hospital for a broken mind. A broken leg in my broken mind? A broken stigma on my stigmata? There was no bed ready so I had to wait for a day and a half in a small room with no window. I was a patient with no patience. Things turned ugly. I had to apologise to the security guys quite a few times. Everything was perspex so nothing would break and I was FURIOUS.

I trapped my own self in there. Dave came back and took the boys to the beach and my pitiless sister got on with her life. I wonder how people in developing countries get their mental needs met? They're probably too busy thinking about basic things like food and water and shelter.

A Lot Of Things Happened over the course of the past month. (For the record, none of this had anything to do with alcohol or drugs. Just my own head, out to get me. Again.)

I've never felt so scarily low, for such an extended period of time. I unravelled to the end of the string. It was such a relief to not pretend anymore. But then people in my community - both in the real world and online, found out where I was. Mortifying.

Apparently somebody left a comment here stating: "... those poor boys."

Those poor boys? Had the best school holidays. Playing on the beach with their dad and cousins, visiting both grandmothers, going to the park, going to the movies, eating sushi.

Their mum didn't end up hanging from a tree, so no. They're not poor boys at all.

Apparently I have Bipolar II. I read through the symptoms and cannot believe I got to forty-one years old without realising I may have something more seriously wrong with me than just "life being a bit tricky" at times. The words "high-functioning" have been explained to me by a lot of nurses, doctors, and psychiatrists. Probably why I can do things like interview the Prime Minister of Australia in the morning, a prostitute from Kings Cross in the afternoon, then end up on the Project that night talking about rape culture. Then feeling like the most worthless wreck of a human being the next day.


I was officially discharged yesterday. Left my bed a little better than how I found it, with the *cutest* Frankie poster.

All of the people I was in there with ... wow. They're mostly just like you and me. Mostly just doing their best. You would never guess if you walked past them in the street. Life is hard, and for some, it's REALLY hard.

Living in a mental health ward is like living in a Richard Scarry book if he'd dropped some acid before writing it. The nurses all deserve a raise, a holiday, and a massage. They are unbelievable. I could not do what they do - thank GOD they do what they do.

I'm reeling. Realing. Dave is a taking it in his stride but it must have been hard for him. He made me a coffee with cream as soon as we got back home yesterday, while mum was filling the freezer with beautifully cooked food.

I've had a CAT scan, bloods, heart monitor. On a healthy dose of medications. I don't know what's going to happen next, because there's no such thing as happy endings. But there's always chocolate and sex and truth and nurses you adore and laughter. And music. Even in dark times.

This song was in my head the entire time I was in there. An anthem, of sorts. I really love it how you get to the trumpets and you think think the song has ended but it didn't, it kept going.

I shed my skin and put my bones into everything 

At 3 minutes and 10 seconds, I coulda swore it was over. But it kept going.

It just kept going.


PS The woman spat mashed potato at my face in the mental health unit during dinner because she thought I was a Belgian spy. I was so fucked up I began to wonder if I actually WAS a Belgian spy? Maybe this wasn't my real life at all? WHO COULD EVER REALLY KNOW?

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...