liveblog 05/12/25
8:14: I bypass the lock on my social media apps to post on the meme page, then remember I planned to liveblog today, so I pop a Vyvanse and begin the post-posting camera roll clear-out. I search keywords from each meme, then delete as many photos as I can. The goal is to get down to 30k (I’m at 140k now, down from 200), upload them to a hard drive, so I can upgrade my phone. It’s laborious, and at times reminiscent of the 1914 trenches. One of the first photos that came up was a text from my ex.
I couldn’t bring myself to delete it. That’s the case for most photos, whether it be memes or pages from books. Because, like today, I’ll serendipitously discover a memory, or a line like
“Nobody had ever said, “You are wonderful, even your bitterness and neurotic energy are wonderful. Even your suspiciousness, your rigidity, your graying, thinning, hair, your wrinkled thighs.” I’d been young and beautiful once, and even then nobody had kissed me and said, “How young and beautiful you are,” not unless they wanted something from me.”
– Ottessa Moshfegh, Death in her Hands
And I’ll feel something.
Still, I discard the saved pages of Moshfegh. I toss the screenshot of a woman looking out into a field, captioned “Thinking about how different my life is from the man picking in the rice field every morning.” I scrub my roll clean of all ‘Never ask a woman her age…’ memes, and learn that
- Lululemon is called that because the founder thought it would be funny when Japanese people said the brand name
- There’s a conspiracy theory that Netanyahu has four names associated with one social security number
- In 2010, Ukraine recognised Stepan Bandera, a Nazi collaborator, as a national hero.
I stumble onto a text I’d sent in 2022, “Instead of doing tarot cards … you press shuffle on Taylor Swift’s discography 3 times – and that’s how ur relationship with whoever ur thinking of is gonna go :0”
Let’s do that now. See how my December will go.
- Love Story TV
- Call It What You Want
- You’re On Your Own, Kid
I let YOYOK play because I hadn’t heard the song before. The lyrics sluggishly scroll down the Spotify page. “I touch my phone as if it’s your face,” was my favourite line.
I stopped deleting photos upon seeing another text from my ex.
9:09: My groin, armpit, and scalp are oily wet, greased and perfumed with five days’ worth of body odour, and still not ready to get out of bed. But I must. The problem with hobbies is they don’t allow room for hygiene practices. It’s make a website or clean your teeth. It’s complete a task or see your friends.
9:15: I peer into the fridge. Edamame beans, Greek yogurt, pickles, and low-carb pasta clutter the shelves, but my eyes and brain had severed contact; the shelves were empty.
I suppose that’s a sign to work on my gratitude.
I am grateful to have access to clean and healthy food.
I eat two muesli bars, a kiwi, and a banana, and consider lying about what I ate.
9:29: Muffled voices echo from my neighbours. I stand for a few minutes, eavesdropping, despite not catching a single word.
9:40: Searched how to add quotes to a blog (in a website dev way), found the options ugly and difficult, so I settled for header text. Continued to edit my website.
10:26: Replied to texts, felt frustrated that a friend used the wrong “your.”
10:36: Opened my windows as far as the locks allow. They weren’t installed to keep the house safe, but to stop me from sneaking out when I was a teen. Yup, I’m big ol’ 25 and still live with my parents.
10:38: I’m currently looking for my headphones, and I can’t help but feel someone stole them. Logically, they’re hiding in my dumpster of a bedroom, yet I still seek to blame others…
Perhaps they’re in my car. I’ve yet to unpack, despite returning from my trip a week ago.
I walk outside and squint. The leaves are white, mirrors of the overcast sky.
I open the boot to four wet towels, two totes stuffed with unclipped bags of food, and a duffel. This smells like cancer got AIDS, I thought. The towels are heavy, still damp, and my clothes smell somewhere between lemongrass and mildew. I dump the laundry at the front door. Still no headphones.
I search the wall side of my bed. Scrunched tissues, a packet of mochi, a tea towel, and a bottle of juice that I gave to a guy to wash down my cum. In the flurry of searching for headphones, I throw the tissues into my laundry basket and my phone into the bin.
10:50: I give up and lie down, making peace with going for a walk without headphones.
11:01: I check my desk—behind the bucket of candy, behind the abstract painting, under my keyboard—what the fuck. Why are my mom’s headphones under the keyboard?
I throw them on, leaving my door open for ventilation, and walk to the end of my street to You’re On Your Own Kid. The breeze is cool on my legs, and, strangely, it reaches up my thighs. My boxers shimmer. Wait—boxers!??? I walk back home, past my boot still open, and put on shorts.
11:17: I’ve made it to the park and regret not wearing sunglasses. The wind is sharp, and the sun burns the patches of skin I missed covering with sunscreen. The random pop songs I enjoyed a few days ago anger me now.
That’s a corny album cover.
That line is zillennial cheugy.
My cheeks wrinkle. The songs feel like they’re trying to be different rather than just being different. And then other songs are either vaguely pleasant nothing-burgers or they’re sung by really ugly people, and I’m not in the mood for that right now.
Typically, I don’t have such mean thoughts—at most, I say jokes that land as mean things because there are many translation errors between mind and mouth—but I stopped taking most of my medication a month ago. I wonder if that has anything to do with it. I’ve noticed my insomnia’s worse, but I’m able to make goals now.
11:36: A herd of calves and a few mama cows approach me. I feed them long grass from fenced-off fields and give them pats, momentarily forgetting my wish to chew nicotine gum.
11:55: I loop the fields a few times and don’t think of anything.
Actually, I think a fair bit, but mostly about myself, and I already feel vain and vapid liveblogging in the first place, so I feel hesitant to share. But for the sake of completing the exercise:
- Although no one knows of this liveblog right now, I feel weird about my use of—fuck, what are these called again—oh, em-dashes! But I gotta post what comes to mind first *nonbinary shrug emoji*
- I need to write some intro celebrating Megan Boyle, the pioneer of liveblogging. I’m christening my blog by liveblogging for a few days in her honour. Instead, I bully myself for co-opting another person’s idea.
- I’m nervous that people will find out I can’t touch-type. They’ll see how long it takes me to write a sentence and deduce that not only am I canonically slow, but only my index fingers hit the keypad, which makes me think of another ex who once said something like, “Jack, you’re really bad at basic tasks.”
- I wonder if I’m a bad person for having missed details already, how Theodora called and asked me if I was near hers so I could go over and hide her ashtray, or how I keep snacking and chewing nicotine gum
12:27: I return home, lie in bed, and wonder what smells worse, me or my bedsheets? I read over what I’ve blogged, then go on my phone.
13:02: Shower time *heart eyes emoji.* Y’know, Sophie Kemp, author of the modern Bible ‘Paradise Logic’, wrote a piece saying the best book about the internet wouldn’t mention the internet at all. She discusses ‘Allegro Pastel’, a book that uses emojis to satirise how technology makes us boring or whatever. Though I haven’t read Allegro Pastel, I was honestly really butthurt finding out someone would satirise emoji use. I love the heart eyes emoji! It says everything I want it to. Would you not feel heart-eyes emoji at the idea of having a shower after your skin hasn’t touched water in 5 days? Not only that, but satirising emojis feels like opening a dictionary and choosing a random word to make fun of. Actually, it’s not even that, it’s the lowest of low-hanging fruit!
I head outside to sunbathe and reread the Sophie Kemp piece ‘Crushing Banalities.’ It makes me feel dumb and conflicted.
13:25: Jordy texts “Hi Jacks blog” because I told him I was live-blogging.
13:44: I text Theodora, asking which website I can download books from.
13:45: Okay, I should shower for real, but I’m enjoying the stink. I don’t usually smell like this, so I’m pretending I’m my own boyfriend. Except if my boyfriend smelt like this I would think he was disgusting and if he asked for head I wouldn’t give it to him and then he’d complain that I don’t try during sex but he’d get offended if I asked him to freshen up and then he’d fall out of love with me.
13:58: I have a case of the empties, but I don’t want to do anything about it.
14:02: Going on my phone is equal parts having the best time of my life and inescapable suffering. It’s a bunch of nothing, yet my best friends live in it.
14:04: So my plan to have a shower over an hour ago was derailed all because I typed *heart eyes emoji* … le sigh.
14:17: I MISS MY EX 300 CRYING EMOJIS QQ
SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!!!!!! GO HAVE A FUCKING SHOWER NOW YOU STANK BITCH!!!!!
Lol.
I get why Megan Boyle used so many capital letters. IT’S SO FUN HAHAHAHHA HEHEHEHE,,,
Typing is such a blast :’)
Typing is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off.
14:21: Okay, I’m actually going to shower now, gootbye my beautiful screen. I love you. I’m serious, a screen is like a baby to me. Holding my laptop gives me the same feeling as holding my 3-month-old cousin.
14:31: See? Same feeling. Sorry about covering the baby, the internet is weird, man.
14:32: Omg. Just remembered I told my mom I was making a website. Praying she doesn’t find this, eek.
14:33: Do you think anyone would still want to be my boyfriend if they knew I liveblogged? Even once. It’s kind of like meth. Huge red flag.
14:39: I notice I’m performing, the way one does in everyday life. I don’t know how true to self these words and jokes are. I’m not consciously choosing what I say, but I have the same feeling in my body that I have when I’m doing a bit. Much to reflect on. Shall ponder in the shower /srs.
God, even typing that tone indicator was too aware, too bit-y, too internet.
Maybe I need to treat my (live)blog like the woke club nights where you do land acknowledgements and you aren’t allowed to make transphobic jokes. You don’t think about colonisation with every hip thrust, but you move with respect, and make space for others…
What I’m saying is, I need to acknowledge that this is online. I acknowledge the internet comes with audience. But I need to be present. Allyship, or in this case, not performing, comes with action. Which means being present, and doing your best. Okay, here is my commitment: I am finally going to have a non-performative shower. LFG!!!!!!
14:51: Are you allowed to go on tangents on a liveblog? Is meandering legal?
15:03: Dried snot and phlegm stain the basin. My brothers’, no doubt. I get having a gross room, but a shared space is just nasty.
I use four pieces of floss, one for each quarter of my mouth; I can’t risk contamination. I smell each piece after use, and surprisingly, the smell was tolerable. I did clean my teeth last night, after all.
My toothpaste spit is pale.
I retch when I put the tongue scraper too deep.
I inspect each razor and choose the least blunt looking one.
16:24: I don’t remember how it happened, but I didn’t make the shower. I guess I left the room, then lay down and spent an hour doing I-don’t-know-what on my phone. I genuinely couldn’t tell you. But for the last fifteen minutes, I’ve been rereading liveblog. It was reassuring, the reminder that live-blogging is not meant to be interesting, nor should you try to make yourself likable. It’s just documenting what you do, think, and feel, to the best of your ability. With that in mind, I’m dropping my insecurities, and here we go again.
16:47: I knock on the bathroom door. An exaggerated deep voice answers. My brother must have friends over. I wait for him to finish, then strip in front of the mirror. My face looks older than I know it to be. My body is slender. No wonder my cock gets a lot of compliments.
I open the shower doors but find another excuse to not get in: I have to lock my bedroom door. My brothers friends are thieves.
17:17: I finally fucking showered.
Notes from the experience:
- I didn’t think about everyone I love dying as I often do in the shower
- My armpits felt like a waterslide
- Even with conditioner my hair was too matted to run my fingers through
- I pulled a piece of string from my hair as I washed it ??
- It took a while for my taint to stop feeling greasy but we got there in the end
- There wasn’t a bar of soap, so I made do with body wash and shampoo
- Someone banged on the door at some point
- I remembered why I left the bathroom in the first place: I went to find tweezers to pluck my nipple hair. But I didn’t end up getting that done.
I now have approximately 30 minutes to get ready for an art opening.
I clip my toenails, then gasp when something black comes out.
Oh, it was cos I used my nail clippers to trim my candle wicks. Phew. Most of my nail clippings miss the bin, and I leave them on the carpet.
17:40: Instead of getting ready, I liked and replied to tweets that shaded Ocean Vuong. Oops!
I throw on a bum fit – a tank that used to be tight, a hella oversized blazer, jeans that smell like piss. I forget to perfume the soles of my feet, but douse the rest of my body. My brother and his friends are yelling upstairs. I hope they die.
The soles of the shoes I want to wear fall off, so I get back into bed.
18:08: I call Magenta to ask if she’s at the art thing yet. She apologises for not answering my text with the excuse that she’s too popular, and says she’s in an Uber. I chuck on my bum sneakers, then swap to tabis, and make my way with only my phone and camera bag.
Fuck. My car’s out of gas. Everything is Embarrassing auto plays.
My foot is soft on the pedal as my car shivers to the gas station.
18:22: a group of teenaged boys park next to a gas pump, not to fill gas, but to buy snacks. Are they stupid? I queue a few fka twits songs while I wait.
Surprised my card doesn’t decline after I punch in $40 on the keypad.
18:35: I rinse my mouth with mouthwash and spit it out the window.
18:45: I arrive at the art thing and the first person I talk to is Prim. She’s wearing the best outfit ever, as she always is, and she holds a pig plushie on a paper plate, wrapped in cling film and stickered with what I assume was a barcode, I didn’t have my glasses on.
I walk through the crowd of straight guys that look gay and gay guys that look mid to compliment the outfits of my female acquaintances, and check out the artwork, of course.
My favourite thing about the paintings were the colours of the shadows. Rusty, equal parts ethereal and familiar. I also loved how delicate the paintings were, and how photorealistic the red apple was.
Magenta pours me a massive glass of wine.
Nicole and her sexy friend Archie who I keep thinking is 19 even though I know he’s 22 begin to leave, but I convince them to stay.
19:17: The showrunners or someone lights fireworks.
Rosie arrives. “Happy 9/11,” she says.
Omg it’s 9/11?
She explains that she’s making a joke about how the art show thing is called the World Trade Center, and I realise that’s why they’re doing fireworks. Oh.
Someone asks how Rosie’s day was and she says she worked from home today, so she didn’t do anything.
Nicole says “I think my iq has dropped significantly since being in a relationship. Like, I haven’t read a book since.”
Some guy who I don’t have a code name for talks about developing colour film with black and white chemicals. I am fascinated by the process and ask if he can help me do it, even though he wasn’t talking to me.
A girl a few convos over talks about how much she loves Jews.
I drunkenly tell too many people about my liveblog.
19:51: I walk to my car to grab more fireworks, because I often have things like that on hand. I pass a fiat (car) and mistake the brand as ‘fat’
20:37: I smoke a joint with Magenta and some guys in ‘studio’ room that’s closer in size to a closet.
Thought I could totally give this gay guy a bj even if he stank.
I see another joint in the corner of the room and pocket it.
I go off on one of my yarns about how men are better directors than woman because the patriarchy conditions them to be good at bossing people around.
The guy who rolled the joint asks a lot of questions so he can answer them, but it’s endearing.
We head outside when someone says they’re closing things down soon.
I chat with two guys with ambiguous sexualities, then the most dazzling woman at the function explains the primal signs, the mix between astrology and Chinese zodiac. She and I are Orcas, and apparently, we treat our partners like employees.
The idea of league of legends is really appealing.
21:05: I call Nicole because she’s randomly vanished and I want to spend more time with her. She doesn’t pick up. I call her boyfriend. He doesn’t pick up either.
21:09: Nicole calls me back and tells me to meet her at the bus stop.
21:22: Nicole doesn’t pay for the bus.
A stranger sitting with his friends is dressed as a caricature of a trans masc, despite being plainly cis.
When we get off, I like how Archie checks to see if we left anything on the seats.
I don’t have the words to describe how joyous my conversations were with Nicole for the rest of the night, but they were so ki love yay purple heart emoji. Like, that’s sis for real.
AKA we talked a bunch of shit.