Being asked if I am an “innie” it an “outie” - and no, it wasn’t in reference to my navel. For the record, I’m an outie - apparently a “very outie”, at that.
The lounge room I study in, in between seeing clients, shares a communal wall with the back of a porn store’s video booths (fondly referred to as the ‘wank tank’). Whenever someone’s in a booth I hear muffled, over the top sex noises and I don’t think i’ll ever get used to researching for my thesis to the sound of fapping.
I’m sure that occasionally dancing by yourself in your underwear to Huey Lewis and the News is a good thing.
A love letter from Leonard Cohen:
(The last time I posted this was a few years ago, in my semi-personal journal. I just stumbled on it again. It still rattles me that the most powerful examples of love writing I’ve read have come from paranoid, terrified fucks): You’re going to leave me. I know you’re going to leave me. Like you left Laporte. Like you left Arif. I’ll be someone you call by his last name....