I witnessed something odd on the train today.

An Asian lady pulled a long, cylindrical, wood-like plant from her bag and proceeded to eat it. Inside it was purple. And sausage-like. And it had layers.

I would have asked her what it was, but she didn’t speak English.

Am I going crazy, or is it just my lack of gastronomical skills?

This is so true for me.

I am probably the only one in my friendship circle who refrains from having sex with people I’ve just met. I remember the other night a friend of mine was talking about a guy she really likes, and someone else just said, ‘Oh yeah, I don’t really know him, but we fucked once.’ 

I don’t think I could do that. I hate the thought of walking down the street when I’m thirty and married, and bumping into all these random people who I had one night stands with. And what if they’re old and ugly?

I don’t know, maybe it’s just the prudish side of me coming out.

To me, train tracks look so small and thin from afar, perhaps because they are often compared to the vast scenery which they weave between. Yet when I’m sitting on the train, I peer through the window and the enormity of those rusty bars dawns upon me.

And I always get to wondering what it would feel like to die by a train.

Would it be slow, where you could feel the wheels pierce every inch of you and slowly roll your flesh into nothingness? Or would it be quick and painless, a carriage through your heart and it’s all over?

Either way, I don’t really want to find out.

Over the weekend a couple of friends and I took a road trip from Melbourne to Adelaide. Being the only female in the car, it was quite enjoyable and enlightening at the same time. I learnt some things about men, and was exposed to a wide range of rock, techno and country music.

During those eight and a half hours, the atmosphere ranged from being chatty, to sleepy, to musical, to silent. And when we reached the final thirty kilometres, the car become a nightclub in which we crumped intensely and frivolously.

Naturally, my mother had been worried when us three young people embarked on the long drive. Yet, while we grooved our way to some techno beats, I thought to myself: if this is the way I’m going to die, it’s a good way to go.

There’s a fine line between being a douchebag, intelligent and caring about grammar. Or maybe they’re all the same thing? I don’t know.

What I’m trying to say is this: I know my theirs from my there’s but I don’t feel the need to fucking rage on about it all the time. Sure, I could never enter into a romantic relationship with someone who didn’t know how to use proper grammar, but I really don’t give a shit otherwise.

Nd newayz, i luv me sum txt-speak n shyt every 1nc in a whyl. Wot of it?

I really need to get to bed.

It’s strange how death can bring about a certain immortality. I’m now the same age as a friend of mine who died some years ago. 

And yet, she still feels older than me. Her beauty, her youth will always live on because age did not mature her appearance.

I know it sounds silly.

I’m filled with so much regret. 

I used to think that things happened for a reason; like it was destiny or something leading me towards a certain life path. ‘You learn from mistakes. They make you a more interesting person’, people say.

Now I just think it’s a load of shit. I didn’t want that to happen and I don’t know how to make it right. 

I’m a terrible person.

I really do. But sometimes I just want to see it all onstage. Breathe the same air, see the spit flying from the actors’ mouths, feel the tension.

You know?