Struggletown.

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There’s something about doing 175 with the windows down, a cigarette on my lips and a smile. Handsome man, good music, good times ahead.

Midnight drives and night skies make me come alive.

Eagerly showing my sister my new glittery pink stripper heels I plan to wear to a charity auction, after my 2.5km run this morning, still in my running gear.

I am fabulous.

This is me, without clothes or make up or any other people to hide behind (albeit a warmth filter) and there are some things you should know.

I have Daddy issues. I have Daddy issues to the extent of once thinking that because He didn’t stay, no man ever would.
That’s another thing: I am a thinker. I am an over-thinker, an under-thinker, left-ways, right-ways, backwards, forwards, zigzagged thinker. About everything.
I imagine scenarios in great vivid detail. I live another life inside the cinema of my head.

I am a talker; I am so keen on talking, I often struggle to censor what comes out.

Just when I think I have a grasp on who I am, I perform a whirl and a pirouette and lose it all again. In essence, I only think I know. This is both a wonderful and dangerous thing, because I can’t ever lose myself, but fear I may one day have nothing more to discover.

I place love and family on the same priority level. People around me are so focused on other things - career, a holiday, themselves - and yes, this is marvellous. I cannot seem to find it. Selfishly, I want to be loved. I am wholly capable of loving, and to the full extent, and I wonder if this is why I can’t find it. Sometimes I wonder if it is me, or if I just simply am not meant to be loved by someone.
Sometimes, I hope that for all my hopeless romantic failures, I will one day find the most precious love of them all and this will be a kind of reward for suffering through fools and equally foolish decisions.

I hope he will be handsome, and I hope he will love dogs and all the twists and turns I have.

I want to live an ultimately beautiful and wild life. I want to float and travel and explore; I want to gather more tattoos and postcards, amazing memories in colours and definition I can’t imagine. I want Rock n Roll and harmonicas, the Blues and banjos and laughter and lazy Sundays.
I want dogs and horses and a man that wants this and me and all that I do and don’t know I want.

I am fickle, to say the least. But I deserve these things.

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I’m packing up my house and putting stuff in bags and Mum tells me to sort out the dozen or so teddies I have from when I was a kid and I planned to only take like, three with me…
I’m taking at least half. Because I can remember their names, where they’re from and where they’ve been and how upset they would be if they didn’t come too.

I just want to eventually live in a nice house on a nice block of land with a nice man and eventually marry that nice man and play guitar on a Sunday morning and ride my horses and occasionally go to nice places we’ve never been to and have two nice kids and take pictures of nice people and make money from it.

That would be nice, alright?

Back-porch, home-alone coffee times. Living wild.

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I met a poet double-timing as a bartender on Monday night.

He gave me a free pint and a smile and joined me for a smoke and a laugh; I wrote my number on a cardboard coaster.

He met me in the parking lot of the down-at-heel hotel where I was staying, and he sat there in the ungodly and tired hours of the morning with me, sinking cold beer; he laughed at my jokes and we smoked more, and even now, I don’t know which one I needed most.

Maybe both.

Talk fell out of us. Easy.
Like putting on a comfortable tshirt.

He kissed me under an old palm tree that’s probably seen better days and hundreds of others do the same, in a manner and a way that felt like he tried to breathe me in, all beery and cigarette-smoky.

He held my face.

He dwarfed me completely, and his hands felt lovely.

look-its-those-rocknroll-misfits:

Cheers to us.

Trying to draw. Clearly, I am doing it wrong.

"I’m a simple woman, I like handsome bearded brunette men and breakfast food."

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Channeling Ron Swanson for life. (via thatkindofwoman)

(via coffeeinthemountains)

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I made chewy peanut butter and choc-chip cookies…

In a convection roaster because my landlord won’t fix my oven.

I have all of the skills.

Trains cease to be ok after two hours and you can’t go back to sleep.

"The territory of woman is that which lies untouched by the direct desire of man. Man attacks the vital center. Woman fills out the circumference."

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Anais Nin,
The Diary of Anais Nin 1931-1934.