back up blog

Dear Darby , ‘Enjoy it while it lasts,’ Mama warned me a few weeks before Christmas. ‘You and Calum won’t live in the same place for much longer, so drink up every minute while you can.’ Oh, Darby, I’ve been trying -- so very, very much. I haven’t written to you since last October , and that’s probably because I’ve been doing as I was told – exploiting your time and making you travel for an hour and a half at a time to my new house in Zone 3, so that I can roll around in your jokes, and we can do silly voices together, and talk about when I live in California and you edit Vogue. I moved in with my friend Amy recently, and even though I live here too now you still refer to it as “Amy’s House”. ‘DON’T MAKE ME COME ALL THE WAY TO AMY’S HOUSE,’ you say to me, as I tell you to bring glitter glue and some card because this is Christmas Crafternoon , bitch. Your insisting on calling it “Amy’s House” is kind of like how, every time you Tweet lyrics to your favourite songs, which are normally a

Here’s what’s happening with me: my doctor told me I’m obese, I’ve not felt healthy for a while now, and today I begin a terrifying and exciting journey to lose almost 3 stones of weight – 38 pounds, to be exact. I’ve been gently accumulating extra fat. We could call it “softness”, “womanliness”, or “padding” but it isn’t any of those things. It’s fat. I feel comfortable using that word, and always have. I wrote a book called I’m Fat (and still get laid) , as my own way of taking ownership of that word. I’m not afraid of it. “But you’re not fat!” emails, Tweets, and well-meaning family would counter, because people are nice, and often we use that word as weapon, particularly against women, as another way of saying, “You’re not perfect.” I am perfect – perfect as I’ll ever be. I’m also fat. Those two things are separate, because the circumference of my thighs is not directly related to my worthiness as a human being, and I know that in my bones. I love myself, so incredibly much, and am

‘Is your mum’s name Jane?’ she said to me, across the table. She was wearing my favourite piece of jewelry , and had a pack of tarot cards spread in front of her. Her hair was white, and wild, her nails long and purple. She’d instructed me to leave a chair between us so that she had space to feel my energy, and I was to lean back, keeping my heart open. ‘Yes,’ I said to her, surprised. ‘Her name is Jane.’ ‘And you’re, what… 27?’ I smiled. ‘Yes, I’m 27.’ ‘You’re surrounded by fives. Are you a Taurus?’ ‘I’m a May baby, May 22 nd .’ ‘Fifth month of the year. Mmmmm. The 22 nd is a very lucky number. Born on the cusp, though – Taurus/Gemini. Conflicting personality. Are you a lucky person?’ I didn’t know what to say to that. ‘Yes.’ ‘I wonder what the fives are about…’ she mused. And then, ‘Why are you here today, Laura?’ What could I say to that? I shrugged, unsure how to begin. I lie awake at night wondering what I’ll do if I don’t get accepted into graduate school this year. My soul sist