Run away to Brisbane.
Drink black coffee with three sugars from a pink floral teacup; drink it whilst your housemate smokes cigarettes he knows will end up killing him as he waxes lyrical about quitting soon; drink it and laugh at how nothing ever fits together very well at all.
Go home to Byron Bay once every couple of months, swim topless in the ocean and stay up all night drinking in your mother’s wisdom in a way you never quite managed when she was around every day. Take baths even though it’s summer, because your overpriced hardwood home doesn’t allow you the luxury.
Allow yourself to get caught in the rain.
Turn down free cocktails offered by infatuated men at one in the morning when you can’t remember what the sky outside looks like; find yourself accidentally wasted after combining Smirnoff Blacks, no-brand vodka and orange juice on Sunday mornings. Sit on your bathroom floor naked, covered in ground coffee beans, reading Kurt Vonnegut aloud to yourself and wondering if the neighbours think you’re mad - think they’re mad in return.
Read Vonnegut on the bus and laugh at your own pretentiousness. Steal toilet paper from your job.
Decorate your run-down Queenslander with candles, prayer flags, fairy lights and Polaroids from a time during which you deemed yourself more interesting.
Fall in love in a too-small room filled with knick-knacks and dirty underwear; fall harder as you jump into the freezing water of a creek half an hour out of town - remind yourself that you once dreamed of moments like these.
Wear eight-inch heels every night.
Wear furry jackets and red lipstick despite residing in Australia’s sleepiest city.
Pay for everything in cash.
Never reply to your text messages.
Walk through art galleries with your obnoxious friends and revel in the glares you receive for being far too loud. Live. There is beauty to be found wherever you end up.
A short exercise in romanticising the idea of one’s own existence, Daisy Lola (via zombiebondage)