liveblog 11/12/25

01:29: Still up, still scrolling. Four empty packets of cheese and crackers lay beside me.

02:32: Jack off to Ashton Summer’s face. Still not tired. If I don’t fall asleep within 28 minutes, I won’t be safe to drive tomorrow.

02:39: I’m not even scrolling, just watching the seconds on the clock app.

02:51: Perform surgery on a joint I found on the floor. My headphones die as I’m about to resuscitate the spliff. They’ve been on charge for the last two hours—how can that be? I know it’s my brother who’s snuck into my room, swapped out my charger, and stolen my lighter, too. I march upstairs. In the lounge, hooked to a battery pack, my charger dangles from a power point, the ‘Jack’ label scratched out. I’m furious, and wish this was autofiction instead of a liveblog so I could write the vile things I think and get away with it.

03:10: Shuffling as if shackled, the surgeon walks to the table in the pitch-black operating room, his head low. The flatline drone sends an empty echo through his spine. He tries to speak, but his mask muffles his words. Knuckles white and eyes strained, he murmurs something about hope. 

Leaning forward, he carefully tears a half inch of skin, thin as paper. Dark green bulges from the patient’s abdomen. 

“The last and only organ we have for this transplant,” he says, lifting a zigzag paper and laying it flat beside the shrivelled carcass. He unfolds the sheet of tender skin and delicately scoops the weed with his nails, placing it into the new paper. 

“Sir,” the deep-voiced nurse says, “we’re losing a lot of blood.”

The surgeons eyes dart from the patient to the green stained linoleum. 

“Shit.”

He keeps his hands steady and posture sharp. He pinches up what’s salvageable. 

“We roll on three,” he commands. 

“One, two—“

In a sharp tug, they pull the paper tight—tucking one side into the organs. 

“And pull!”

A faint beep plays from the monitor. 

He lifts the joint to his eye. It’s smooth-skinned and toothpick thin. 

“Perfect.”

Lowering the joint slowly, something sticks to his thumb. 

“Team,” the surgeon says. “I think we rolled the joint the wrong way round.”

One nurse gasps. Another shakes. 

“Leave it to me,” he says. 

Faster than a flip-turn, he whips the joint around and pulls it tight like a zip-tie. The nurses applaud. He knows it wasn’t what it used to be, but it’s alive.

03:30: I run the joint to the toaster and wait patiently until it catches fire. It goes out a quarter way through, but that’s all I wanted to smoke. 

04:08: Still can’t sleep. Bored enough to fantasise about Kyle. 

04:48: The birds are up now. Or maybe they’re audio-hallucinations. If I can’t sleep soon I’ll have a Vyvanse and start my day.

06:45: gamed 🙁 but in a happy way 🙂 !! Vyvanse Chappell Roan style *fire emoji* 

08:24: okay I kinda wanna stop gaming now… Last one?

09:06: Got up for breakfast. I feel like a shaken baby. 

10:53: Unfortunately I lay back down after breakfast, and you can guess what happened. But now? I’m on a beeline for the shower. I’m going to make it and I’m going to start my day. It’s going to be awesome. TRUSTTRUSTTRUST.

11:43: The cleaning process is magnifique. My gums don’t bleed when I floss, and I don’t get shampoo in my eyes. 

My usual bar of soap had vanished, so I use the hand soap that makes your skin feel like a chalkboard. 

The weather and I have creative differences about my outfit. I wanted to layer a skirt with jeans, but that wasn’t possible. 

Ripe, musty, and wet no more, I walk out the house with my chin up. 

The pavement is marked with liquids that’ve given up on evaporating. 

Peeling paint covers each storefront, the cracks large enough for me to climb through.

A man with one bottom tooth says “you’re one of those” as I walk past. 

12:35: There are five people working at the photo store. One scratches at a label, another stares at a shelf with his arms crossed. I wait at the checkout for eight minutes before they serve me. 

I float to the department store over, in search of male bootyshorts with a zero inch inseam. The fluorescent lights feel like endotracheal tubes for the eye. A Christmas song plays twice in a row. I wonder what percent of the staff here deal with suicidal ideation. I’m unable to find what I came for.  

I don’t believe in stereotypes, but on this walk, all of the drivers who’ve failed to indicate, or ran a red, are of the same demographic. 

At the supermarket, my organs vibrate. I’m unsure if they’ll implode. The sushi’s gone up a dollar, and so have the candy bars. I slug around for a long acting deodorant. At the checkout, my card declines. I fork out the few coins I have in my wallet, then drift home. 

13:20: Slumped on the couch. Consider napping.  

13:39: Mutual who I find extremely attractive but rarely interact with likes my post. I’d probably smile if my body were not so deflated. See ‘MDMA is for 17 year old girls and dudes who try to fuck them’ and nearly smile.

13:48: Text Macie “Is Chappell telling the chick to kill herself when she sings ‘you’d have to stop the world just to stop the feeling’?” According to Last FM I’ve streamed Chappell 158 times in the last twenty four hours.

14:01: The microwave meal looks like bugs and my fork is heavy. Catch my reflection in the glass doors. So pasty I’m translucent.

14:16: Decide I must swim. Put on a rash shirt cos I’m too lazy to block my back. It’s tight around  the neck and armpit. Rub zinc on face. Feel more attractive with my cheeks and nose pasted white , slightly alien like , slightly more human

14:40: Took hella selfies. Wanted to submerge but didn’t. 

15:00: Pluck the pubes around my ingrown hair just in case there’s another and end up with a pink bald spot in the middle of my bush 

15:25: Drive to Theodora’s. On the off-ramp a man with a sign hops between each foot. The stench of burning skin wafts through my window. I give him the coin I planned to buy a lighter with. 

A lady in a convertible has a cool haircut and I compliment it. She doesn’t hear me. 

I let myself in to Theodora’s. She laughs at my outfit for two minutes straight and sends a photo to Tansy and Macie. 

We joke that she doesn’t need to ask how I am because of liveblog. I say a bunch of insecurity-lead statements / questions. 

I say she’s the only Auckland person who reads the blog, which I’m thankful for. She says that’s not true. I say I don’t want to believe anyone else reads it. Because if they did, I’m not sure they understand the function and intentions of liveblogging. 

In my heart of hearts I know that even my flat and shorthand sentences are better writing than *insert worst writer I know.* Theodora says it’s because I read and #thatperson doesn’t. 

We talk about why the urges to document the self when doing shit are stronger than when you’re happy. 

Then about grief and loss and oblivion. 

When conversation pauses, I listen to Chappell in my head. 

17:44: Lime to the library. My skirt tassels behind me and I get a few bung eyes. Drop off Outline by Rachel Cusk and pick up Allegro Pastel, then lime back.

19:00: Pick up Jet for ‘Die My Love’

He compliments my ‘makeup,’ I say it’s just zinc. I suppose wearing smeared zinc to the cinema is somewhat of an artistic choice. 

The ticket girl is beautiful, so I tell her she is. I accidentally pull my baggie out when paying in cash, and make a note to come back to ask for her instagram.

We’re in the back row, and almost the only people in the cinema. We slouch into the chair, legs on the seats in front chungusly. 

It’s nice being ourselves around each other, that our selves don’t value sitting politely when you’re the only ones there. 

After the movie Jet says his friend killed himself last week. My first question was ‘why?’ then ‘what does he look like?’

On the way to drop him home, we froth the movie. The music, the acting, the colour, the tension. We both relate to Grace. I ask which of his relationships would most likely end like Die My Love’s. He says it’s a story for another time. 

22:50: From his bedroom window, my brother stares at me as I pull into the driveway. He calls me and asks if I want to smoke a cone with him. I say sure. His friend who keeps calling me ‘g’ lights it for me. 

I play a game of league then fall asleep.