Want a piece of PIE?

PIE zine's first issue is out now - I got mine in the mail last week (yay!).
And I think it is quite awesome, with a load of pretty photography, amazing illustrations, and a great list of contributors (cough, me, cough, page 31, coughhhhhhhhhh).

It's three bucks on Etsy. And certain cool stores are selling them, too.
So lovely people in blog-land, I suggest you take a minute to check it out :).

http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=43217495&ref=cat1_gallery_11

Mmmm, PIE... nom nom nom

The Screech of Grinding Teeth.

I've developed a new habit.

I've been waking in the morning with this terrible, paralysing feeling of stress. Every morning. And I can't figure out why. I wake, tense and un-rested, with the urge to cry out - about what, I'm unsure. But it's an overwhelming feeling, as if I've ruined something that cannot be fixed.

I wish I could tell you my new habit was some pleasurably naughty addiction like coffee or cracking my knuckles. Instead, i'm giving myself stomach ulcers over imaginary dilemmas.

I don't know, maybe I need to take up Tai Chi or meditation or something...

Look what I made!

Since returning to uni, I decided that instead of storming about the house red-faced and all crazy-like due to a lack of space to study, I would make myself a place to study. And that I did.

So, after a day throwing dog food, soccer balls, old slippers and building tools out of my family's 'junk room', and a day scrubbing the floor clean, AND another day re-furnishing the room - with the help of Ikea - I was left with a study all to myself.

: ) <- me

I've got a plant and all.
Haha, it's nothing flash. The desk is some faded blue-grey, it's cracked and people have carved their names into the paint, the blinds are stained and teal - enough said, and the sun tends to hit the window I face when sitting so I can't really see the computer screen. BUT it still has a homely feel to it, it's quiet and private, and did I mention I have a plant?

All stops to Hornsby

You were sitting in the seat across from mine, to my left. Dressed in black, tight black pants and brown suede boots cut the the knee - the kind with a pointed front and stiletto heel. You sat with one foot folded underneath you and the other stretched out to the floor. You sat slovenly, leaning onto your bag that sat to your side so no-one could occupy the seat it took.  I hate when people do that.

You punched numbers into your phone, calling the people you spoke to by 'darl' or 'babe' or 'hun'. There was a harsh undertone to your voice, behind all the artificial name-calling. It made the word 'babe' sound like a threat.

I heard you. The whole carriage heard you.

You crowed into that phone, and let out, or pushed rather, a laugh onto all those within earshot. That laugh was pushed out onto us like a justification.

I judged you. I'm sorry. I heard you and thought to myself, 'Far out, I do not want to be that'. I was not expecting it. This feeling just snuck up and slapped my across the face. You spoke about sex, and people you don't care about, and your period... I felt a little embarrassed for you. Understand that I'm not questioning your right to commitment-free sex, nor am I insinuating a lack of class here. I am not the type to get all worked up because someone says the word 'boob' in public. But a merely a care-free woman, you are not. The way you showboated to the entire carriage made me a little sad for you. For that too, I'm sorry. 

You know, as a boarded the train I was given the impression that you hated whomever 'love' and 'honey' were, because of that harsh edge to your voice. But as I stepped off, near the end of the line, I realized that maybe it was you you weren't so fond of. Maybe you envied 'babe' and 'darling'...

And that was about the only thing you didn't mention.

Littlest of fish.

I booked a plane ticket yesterday.
And today I was confronted by the realization that you will not be there to hold my hand.
I feel a little like an eight-year-old girl shuffling about her parent's bedroom in her mother's black, patent leather stiletto heels. And once wearing the shoes, she has to learn how to keep her balance.
It's daunting; like nothing else i've ever done... and I'm incredibly scared about getting it wrong. I can picture it now: me standing by my friend in the airport thinking, 'okay... what do i do now?'
And I think, that's why I need to go.
This is like nothing else i've done.
But there no way to learn how to balance in stiletto heels other than taking the time to walk around. Even if you have a few stumbles in the process.

Dear Diary

I woke up on the wrong side of the day today.

Have you ever done that? Woken up after a mid-afternoon cat nap to find the sky has darkened. You don't know what time it is, and you roam around with a clumsy shuffle of the feet thinking, 'how bloody long was I asleep?'

I feel as though I've been robbed of a day. I'm sitting here now, unsure about what what I want to do.

Maybe I should just climb back into bed and sleep away the rest of this backward evening.

Quarter-life Crises.

I have often questioned why someone chose to name the age of twenty-one a momentous feat, and disregard twenty-five as a mere bump on this 'hill' we are tumbling down with such un-relenting pace. It is afterall a quarter of a century. Twenty-one is of no significance to us, really. We're just mimicing the tendencies of big-brother USA. And if fifty is going to be named a significant event, twenty-five should be considered no less important. Is that not logical? Or am I simply going on a rant about nothing?

Anyway, I've started off by trailing onto a tangent. That is not what I sat down to write about today.

Of late I have felt, as I quickly approach that age bracket of 21-25, an anxiety pressing down on my chest, hard. I'm about to have my fingers pried from the childhood to which I desperately cling, and be flung, face-first, into that dark realm of faceless suits, closeted alcholism and looming deadlines. I want to run into the warm embrace of my mum and have her send away this ugly world that's coming out to get me. I'm not ready. Please mum, I don't wanna go.

I've seen it happen to older friends. I'm being pulled into that spiral of irrational panic where you fleet halfway across the world, drop out of uni, end relationships, dye your hair blue - anything to side-step that transition from carefree youth to overworked drone. And of course i'm exaggerating...there are adults who are inspired and full of life, but I fear the reverse like I once feared the dark stare of the drooling monster under my bed.

It is often overlooked, the quarter-life crisis; it is hidden by the great, black shadow of the dire straits of the fourty-something year olds of the world. Are the fancy cars and lurid affairs of the middle-aged so different to our tattoos and trashy parties? We are both but trying, with no real hope for success, to halt an unstoppable force. We're clutching onto tufts of grass, scrambling for something secure to hold - for none of us are ready to meet this hill's end.