This is Marilyn Monroe:
"Sup?"
A lot of words come to mind when you see her picture. The most commonly-used descriptions usually include references to her blondeness and her “iconic curves”, and there’s no denying that Marilyn was both hella platinum and possessing of a very impressive bosom.
However, she was not fat.
(Written in February 2009)
So the other day, a friend of mine relates the following story: She, a stunning blonde lass with a figure that makes me want to curl up under the covers eating cheesecake and sobbing, “I give up, I give up!” until I die of a burst stomach and the paramedics have to take off the roof of my house and winch my body out with a crane like those Texas people on A Current Affair, is at the tram station in Flinders Street. It’s a hot day and she’s appropriately attired in a summery dress. She asks one of the helpful public transport employees about the destination of the next tram. His response is to stare at her cleavage. And stare. And stare. And stare.
Written back in September 2009. Non-fiction – my story.
(I’m not even sure I want to post this, but fuck it. If it helps someone… Here ya go.)
The first time I considered suicide, I was nine years old. It was 1994 and I started saving travel sickness pills and panadol in a small jewellery box in my room. I didn’t know anything about their ingredients and this was years before kids had regular access to google, but I knew that my parents didn’t want me taking too many of those pills, so it stood to reason in my mind that if I took enough of them, I would die.
