I know that you don’t like yourself very much today. You did something embarrassing. You showed a little bit too much of your heart, that somehow always ends up poking out the end of your sleeve. You’ve been thinking a lot. Too much actually. Reliving every awkward thing you’ve ever done, like a greatest hits edition. Today you haven’t been kind to yourself. Or felt like being funny, or nice. Today’s a day where it feels like your personality has been swallowed up by this big, shaggy black dog in the night, till you can’t see out to try and find the little bit of blue.

I broke the speculum. With my actual vagina. Isn’t that kind of impressive? The deadening crack was mildly terrifying. For a split second I wasn’t sure if it was me or the speculum that broke. Her assistant simply said “strong muscles!!” which I guess is quite a cool compliment? Should I add it to my Bumble bio – strong cervix. Big heart, cold hands. I apologised for my misbehaving vagina, said I would have a word. 

Rinkoffs is a bakery I discovered completely by accident. Supposedly frequented by the Kray twins, apparently, they were such die hards, one of their crew would collect an order of 6 smoked salmon bagels to take to their cells every Friday night before they died. I love the idea that these hardened criminals were waiting for their hit of baker bagel-y goodness come Friday night. It seems so childish, comforting and completely at odds with who they were. 

It got me thinking about what my special prison request would be. Would it be chocolate? Coffee? A vibrator? Would it be the things I’ve given up over this 40 day period or something else? In my head, all those things would be relatively easy to procure on the black market in prison... this is exclusively based off of TV based prison dramas…. but are they the things I would miss the most? 

Playing it cool is thoroughly overrated. I’m just going to come out here and say it. And also in a pandemic world, why bother? The classics are: leave it a day to text back. Don’t initiate contact or the first date. Ignore them at the party. Flirt with their friends. Don’t watch their instagram story. But when dating is mostly virtual at the moment, how do these rules translate? No one notices if you take a while to text someone back on a dating app. Most people run through phases, a high octane swipe session, ignoring or deleting the app for a week, and then like a cheap drug, coming back to it. 

The assumption is that as a woman our lives must be in some way fundamentally lacking, unfulfilling in their current state. As if until we meet someone we just wander around confused in our homes. Picking up and putting down the TV remote to watch Netflix but then realising we can’t because we don’t have  an “and chill partner”, opening cupboards and then closing them to cook non-existent date meals, like robotrons being misfed instructions and short circuiting. It’s completely bizarre. 

Breakfast is a very serious business in the Black family. My dad is the King of scrambled eggs, cooking them low and slow is the key, with plenty of butter in the pan. Get that MILK away from those scrambled eggs for god's sake, now is not the time to play around. A good breakfast is never a rushed breakfast. It should feel slow, virtually like you have all day to devote to this one meal, nay, ritual, NAY religion. Okay too far.

You always remember your first time. No, not that first time, forced upon us by a patriarchal narrative. The other one. Your first big O. Sexual experimentation / self love/ wanking whatever you want to call it, even now is still quite a taboo topic for women. Men, on the other hand are allowed to have strong sexual appetites and are far more at liberty to discuss sex and wanking, (who hasn’t heard at least one sore wrist or tissue related joke) without shame, or being labeled an ‘over sharer’.

I wouldn’t say I have a bad relationship with alcohol, it’s more... inconsistent. It’s sort of like how I imagine a fuckboi thinks about the fleeting object of his affections. I’ll go months not drinking at all, not even thinking about it or wanting to drink, then come back with a vengeance. My friends have a phrase for such nights. They’re what they call my “go rogue” affairs. You know the kinds of nights, you end up doing something impulsive, regrettable, kiss someone you shouldn’t, take over the playlist at the party and play exclusively Taylor Swift tracks or early J-Lo hits, and proceed to walk up to everyone at the party announcing who you think they are, and whether they would like to join a small dance troop this evening??

I was a pretty angry little girl. Cute sure. But I had tantrums like nobody else. But there came a point where my rage turned into tears, anger’s more feminine, acceptable sister. I suddenly understood that my fury was not an acceptable thing for a girl.

A conversation with a friend of mine got me thinking about half moments. The people you nearly, but don’t quite kiss. There’s just this extra presence in the room, the air shifts and the anticipation of the moment unfurling, or potentially losing their nerve, going to bed early, or just staying up and letting it happen. Playing with the power of that moment. When nothing happens but something is so close you can feel your body responding already, hair standing on end, body thrumming. It’s heady. Addictive. Torturous.